“Everything’s fine,” Fredriksson said. “Thanks for asking.”
Berglund heard the fatigue. He hoped the man wouldn’t hit the wall again like he had a couple of years ago.
“There’s a connection between the attack here in Sävja and John’s murder,” Fredriksson continued. “The attacker went to school with this woman and John Jonsson.”
“Has he been apprehended?”
“Still looking.”
“What’s his name?”
“Vincent Hahn. Lives in Sävja but is not at his home. He’s got a nasty blow to the head and is probably quite messed up.”
“Physically or emotionally?”
“Both, I think.”
“Do you need any assistance?”
Berglund wanted to go home, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Thanks, but we’ll manage,” Fredriksson said.
He hung up and felt a gnawing sense of anxiety. Were they dealing with a lunatic who was targeting former students of Vaksala High School?
Eighteen
Justus placed his hand on the surface of the water, just like John used to do. The fish were so used to it that it would take only a few seconds before they were there, nibbling at his fingers. But that had been with John. Now they didn’t come. No one can claim they’re stupid, Justus thought.
Why had John done that? Was it to test the temperature or simply to make contact with them? Justus had never asked; there was so much he had never found out. Now it was too late, but he was the one who had taken over the care of the aquarium. Berit had never really been interested, though she thought it was beautiful and her protests against the new tank had been lukewarm. She had known her protests would make no difference to John. Justus thought deep down that she had been pleased with John’s passion. There were worse things for a man to be obsessed with.
Justus dropped in the hose and started to drain the water. Berit sat in the kitchen with his grandmother. He could hear their muffled voices, deliberately lowered so he wouldn’t hear. They thought he couldn’t take it. He knew they were talking about the funeral.
When the bucket was half full he transferred the hose to the next one and carried the first out to the bathroom. Three hundred liters had to go. Thirty buckets, though Justus didn’t have the confidence to fill them up as high as John, so he would probably have to empty closer to forty. And then fill it all up again.
This had to be done once a week. How many times would he have to walk to the bathroom and back? He sensed that Berit wanted to sell the fish and the tank but she hadn’t said anything.
My Princess of Burundi, John had called her. At first she didn’t get it, then she laughed.
“Oh, I’m a fine princess!”
John had exchanged a look with Justus. Only the two of them knew about this. Berit would find out in due time when everything was good and ready, as John had put it. Justus emptied his third bucket. Only thirty-seven to go.
“You are my princess, you know that.”
Something in his voice had made her stop laughing, become alert. John, who was normally so perceptive, hadn’t noticed this change and kept going.
“I’ll get you your very own title and royal domain one day.”
Was he drunk that night? Justus wondered.
“Do you think we have to live like this?”
“What are you talking about?”
That had brought him back to reality, and he had wilted like a plant under her gaze.
Justus hadn’t liked it. Why couldn’t he have said something, not everything certainly, but enough to take away her look? Why couldn’t he have his moment of triumph? Now he was dead, and no feeling of triumph would ever light up his face again.
Justus carried bucket after bucket. Only thirty to go. The cichlids swam around nervously. Justus had to take a break and sat down on a chair in front of the aquarium. He let his mind drift in between the rock and stone arrangements. He could imagine the twenty-six-degree water enveloping him. The underwater cliffs in Tanganyika Lake were deceptive and he would have to be careful. The caves were not safe. Were there any crocodiles? John had told him about a German fisherman who had been eaten on the shores of Lake Malawi.
He went to get the atlas out of the bookcase. Malawi was a long way from Burundi.
“What are you doing?”
Berit was in the doorway. Justus heard his grandmother groaning in the hall, the bench creaking as she sat down.
“Just looking at something.”
“Is it going okay?”
Justus nodded.
“You won’t spill anything, will you?”
He didn’t answer. Of course he wouldn’t spill anything. Had John ever spilled anything? The Princess of Burundi looked at him.
“Hello, Justus,” his grandmother said even though they had said hello when she got there. She had managed to put on one boot.
“Hello,” he said and took a bucket out to the bathroom.
“Come here,” said the old woman when he came back out. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Justus went up to her reluctantly. She had been crying. She cried a lot. She pulled him to her.
“You are my grandchild,” she said, and in that moment he wanted to escape. He knew what was coming.
“Take good care of yourself.”
He didn’t like listening to her voice. When he was younger he had been afraid of her. He wasn’t afraid anymore, but the feeling of being ill at ease was still there.
“John was so proud of you. You have to take good care of yourself.”
“Of course, Grandma.”
He freed himself from her grasp.
“Do you need any help getting home?”
Aina was always afraid of slipping on the ice and John or Justus would often follow her home.
“No, I’ll be all right. I have studded boots.”
“I have to finish cleaning the aquarium,” he said and left. Then he turned. She looked so helpless with her unwashed hair poking out from under the knitted cap and with her other boot in her hand. Berit came by with a full bucket. She smiled. He took it from her and went to empty it.
His arms were starting to hurt. Next time he would take the hose and run it all the way into the bathroom, but this time he wanted to use the bucket.
The fish were swimming around in synchronized, sweeping motions. He watched them. In the wild these flocks could be seen by the thousands with their territories in such close proximity that they sometimes looked like a giant metaflock. Every part of the reef had its own flock, its own species, perhaps closely related to another species but with its own coloring. The sandbanks between the reefs divided them up.
The Princesses were substrate spawners, others in the tank were mouth brooders, but they were all cichlids, John’s favorite. He preferred African cichlids even though the South African cichlids were more in vogue these days.
Justus had plowed through just about everything there was to read about cichlids. In the process he had gained an interest in geography and knew the African continent better than anyone else in his class. Once he had even ended up in a fight over Africa. One of his classmates had said something about how Africans should climb back up into the trees, where they belonged.
Justus had reacted instinctively. It was as if the fish had generated an identification with all of black Africa, its lakes and rivers, savannahs, tropical rain forests, and even the people who populated his and John’s continent. Africa was good. It was home to the cichlids. Home to their dreams.
He had struck without a second’s thought.
“He doesn’t know shit about Africa,” he had said to the teacher who broke up the fight.
They started calling him “Jungle Boy,” but he paid no attention and eventually they lost interest.
“I talked to your teacher,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “She sends you her regards. Are you going to go back to school before Christmas?”
“I don’t know,” J
ustus said.
“It could be good for you.”
“Has Grandma left?”
“Yes, she did. I’m not worried that you’ll miss very much work, but don’t you think it might feel good to go to school?”
“I have to take care of the aquarium.”
Berit looked at him. He’s so like his father, she thought. The aquarium. She glanced at some cichlids circling the hose.
“We’ll work on it together,” she said. “You know you have to focus on your studies.”
He looked down at the floor.
“What do you think Dad was thinking?” he asked in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” Berit said.
She had identified his body, asked to see all of it. What scared her wasn’t the wounds, the grayish cast of his skin, or even the severed finger and the burn marks. It was his face. She had seen the terror etched into his features.
John had been a brave man, never sensitive to pain, never one to complain. That’s why his face had been almost unrecognizable. I didn’t know terror could change a person so, she had thought and taken a step back.
The female police officer at her side, Beatrice was her name, had taken her arm, but Berit had shaken her off. She didn’t want to be propped up.
“Give me a few minutes,” she had said. Beatrice looked doubtful but did as she was asked.
As Berit stood there, completely still beside the gurney, she felt that she had always known it would end this way. Maybe not known, exactly, but sensed. John’s family was no normal family. It was as if they could not escape their fates.
She had walked over to him again, bent over the body, and kissed his brow. The chill spread to her lips.
“Justus,” she had mumbled, then turned and left the room.
Beatrice was waiting outside. She didn’t say anything, which Berit had appreciated.
“I imagine he was thinking of the Princess,” Justus said.
“What, who?”
“The Princess of Burundi.”
Then she remembered. That was the evening John had unveiled the new aquarium. He had pointed out the various species to her, among them the Princess. She had heard all the names before—how could she not?—but the Princess was new.
He had been leaning forward with his face close to the glass and pointed them out to the guests with warmth in his voice. Then he had looked at Justus and Berit.
“This is my Princess,” he had said, putting his arm around her waist. “My Princess of Burundi.”
“Who the hell is Burundi?” Lennart had asked.
Justus had explained that it was a country in Africa, at the northern end of Lake Tanganyika. Berit had heard the eagerness in his voice. John had patted him on the head with his free hand.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, recalling everything about that evening, how happy she had been. “It’s a beautiful name.”
“Burundi is beautiful,” Justus said.
“Have you been there?” Berit said, smiling.
“Almost.”
And he came close to telling her everything.
Nineteen
The man had certainly been friendly, he thought, offering to follow him into the emergency room. Maybe he thought I had a concussion and couldn’t manage on my own.
He put his hand on his head and waited until he saw the car drive away. The dizziness came and went. He didn’t think it was a result of the blood loss, but rather of the exertion. The wound had stopped bleeding and a sticky scab had formed over it, plastering his hair onto his forehead. He felt gently along the edges of the wound.
After a few minutes he was on Dag Hammarskjöld Way, unsure of what to do next. A light snow was falling. A few cars drove by. He retreated into a park, where a young couple came walking toward him, laughing. They were probably dressed up under their thick down coats. The woman was holding a plastic bag with something Vincent assumed were shoes.
He stepped behind a tree and let them pass before he snuck up behind them. The snow muffled his steps and he took them by complete surprise. He grabbed the man’s wool cap and ran into the park. After fifteen meters or so he turned to see if they had followed, but they were still standing in the same spot, staring at him. He knew they wouldn’t come after him, but he still ran as he made his way toward Uppsala castle.
He pulled on the cap as he ran, veering down to Lower Slottsgatan and coming out slightly north of the swan pond. There he stopped to rest, rubbing his face clean with a handful of snow and pulling the cap back down over his eyebrows.
A taxi was leaving the restaurant, Flustret. He stopped it in the middle of the street and climbed into the backseat. The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror.
“I’m going to Årsta,” Vincent said and was surprised at how collected he sounded. “Årsta center.”
The driver punched in some information on his meter before he gathered speed and crossed the Iceland bridge.
Vincent said nothing during the trip, while the thoughts churned in his head. He was a hunted man now, and it was with a certain measure of delight that he thought about how he would elude his would-be captors. So far everything had gone well. The man who had picked him up would no doubt contact the police after he read about this in the morning paper. But all traces would end at the emergency room. The couple with the cap would probably do nothing. The important thing now was that Vincent not do anything stupid. His wound had to be taken care of, that was the priority.
He paid the driver generously, climbed out, and watched until the taxi was gone before he started walking in the direction of Salabackar. Now everything depended on Vivan’s being home.
Vivan was his former sister-in-law, who had been divorced from his brother, Wolfgang, for almost fifteen years. She lived in a two-bedroom apartment on Johannesbäcksgatan. She had room enough, but the question was if she would be willing to let him in. They weren’t close but sometimes ran into each other in town. A few times they had had coffee together and she had on one or two occasions visited him in Sävja. His brother almost never got in touch with him, and this contact with Vivan was a way of keeping tabs on Wolfgang, who had settled in Tel Aviv.
He threw a snowball at her window and was pleased to see it hit the mark on his first attempt. Vivan’s face appeared between the curtains almost immediately, as if she had been waiting for the snowball to strike.
She looked scared. Vincent could see that, even though her window was on the third floor. Maybe she thought it was his brother, her former husband. That first year after their divorce he had harassed her, called her, banged on her door, and waited for her outside the front door when she came out to go to work.
Was that why she smiled when she saw that it was her brother-in-law? Her face left the window and a few seconds later the stairwell light came on. Vincent felt gratitude, a feeling he almost never experienced. Finally, someone who’s there for me, he thought and walked close to the front door.
Vivan was still smiling, but her expression changed to one of fear when she saw his face.
“What have you done?” she asked.
“Someone attacked me,” he said, which seemed to make her even more frightened.
“Attacked you?” she repeated automatically.
He nodded and stepped inside.
Twenty
Mossa lingered outside the restaurant. He took out a cigarette, lit it up, and inhaled, nodding at an acquaintance on his way in. Lennart thought he had aged. The hair was not as dark, nor was his posture as confident. But he still had style. Composed, Lennart thought.
As always, Mossa was alone, probably the reason why he had managed as well as he had. He was alone in accepting his defeats, but also his winnings.
He started to walk, and Lennart followed, but not too closely. He imagined that Mossa would begin to sense his presence, as if with built-in radar. Lennart preferred to bide his time. It wouldn’t be a good idea to make contact with him on the street. You never knew who was watching. Not that it matte
red to Lennart, but Mossa could be sensitive about it.
He followed him down Sysslomansgatan, through the thick snow, and with every step Lennart was reminded of his brother’s death at the snow dump and his resolve to avenge John grew stronger.
Mossa’s footsteps were small, as was his build. He moved quickly and easily, gliding forth, smoking, his head somewhat bent. Lennart watched him pass St. Olofsgatan and decided to make his move in the narrow, dimly lit alley below the cathedral. He lengthened his stride, the snow muffling his progress.
Suddenly Mossa turned. Lennart was up close now, perhaps only a few meters away.
“What do you want?”
“Hey, Mossa. How’s it going?”
“What do you want?” he repeated and let his cigarette fall to the ground.
“I need some help,” Lennart said, and immediately regretted it. Mossa helped no one except his mother and his handicapped brother. He looked back at Lennart without any expression.
“Your brother was clumsy. That is that,” Mossa said.
Lennart felt a mixture of apprehensive joy and fear. Mossa had recognized him and was going to talk.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. He was clumsy, careless.”
“Do you know something?”
Mossa lit another cigarette and Lennart moved closer. The Iranian looked up and pushed one hand into his pocket.
“No.”
“You haven’t heard anything?”
“Your brother was a good fellow, not like so many of the others. He reminded me of a childhood friend I had in Shiraz.”
The Iranian paused, smoked.
“I only know he was up to something. Something big, at least for him, if you know what I mean. I heard something back in the fall, something about a job. John suddenly had a little money, more than he usually put in. He was in a game and wanted to increase the stakes, to try to win more.”
Lennart stamped his feet anxiously as he listened. His shoes were letting in moisture. Mossa’s talk was making him think.
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