The princess of Burundi

by Kjell Eriksson

  “Patrik,” Justus said. “But he’s screwed up. His dad beats his new wife.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Everyone knows about it.”

  She thought about his words. Of course he would be likely to hear a thing or two, but she wasn’t worried. He was used to standing up for himself. Justus could look delicate but it was a mistake to think he was soft all the way through. Inside, he was as hard as flint, just like John.

  She sniffled involuntarily at the thought of John. Justus stared straight ahead but put his hand in her lap.

  “Dad wanted us to move,” he said. “I did too.”

  “Where would we move to? When did he say this?”

  “During the fall. He wanted us to move far away.”

  “He had his dreams, you know that. But I think he was happy here.”

  “He said he wanted to get away from this shit hole.”

  “He did?” Berit stared at him in amazement. “He used those words?”

  Justus nodded and stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to feed the fish.”

  Berit watched him from the sofa. He moved like John, making the same hand movement over the surface of the water. The cichlids swam up to him in sweeping groups, beautifully synchronized so that they looked like one big body.

  Then someone thumped on the door. The person didn’t bother with the doorbell, just kept thumping. Justus dropped the can of fish food and stared into the hall. Berit got up but felt as if her shaky legs were not going to carry her. She looked over toward the clock on the sideboard.

  “Do you want me to get it?” Justus asked.

  “No, I’ll go see who it is,” she said and walked to the front door.

  The thumping had stopped. She put the chain on the door and opened it. Lennart was standing outside.

  “Why are you banging on the door?”

  She thought about not letting him in, but he would make such a racket in the stairwell that it was just as well to let him in. He came in like a shot.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Don’t start that with me, you bitch. I’ve never been more sober in my life. Bitch!”

  “Go away!” Berit said curtly and opened the door again, holding it wide open and boring her eyes into Lennart’s.

  “Take it easy. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. There’s something you need to tell me.”

  “Justus, go to your room,” Berit said with a shrill voice. She placed herself between her son and her brother-in-law.

  “Just leave,” she hissed. “To think you have the nerve to come here with your dirty mouth.”

  “I’ve talked to Mossa and Micke,” Lennart said calmly.

  Berit threw a quick look over her shoulder. Justus was still there, frozen in place. There was something reminiscent of John in him.

  “Go away. Please. We can talk later.”

  “There’s not going to be a later,” Lennart said.

  A quiet power struggle was going on between them. If only he had been drunk, she thought, it would have been easier. But Lennart looked unusually clearheaded. His cheeks were ruddy and there was no lingering smell of alcohol or sweat on him.

  “What happened to your lip?”

  “None of your business. We’re not here to talk about my lips,” he chuckled, pleased with his improvised joke.

  Berit lowered her head and drew a deep breath.

  “Lennart, for heaven’s sake, think of Justus. He has lost his father. He doesn’t need this now. It’s enough, we…”

  She sobbed once.

  “This is a fine time to cry. You should have thought of it before.”

  Berit went over to Justus, put a hand on his shoulder, and looked him in the face.

  “Justus, please go to your room. He’s either drunk or crazy. He’s talking bullshit. I don’t want you to have to hear this.”

  “I live here too,” Justus said, without looking up.

  “Of course you do,” Berit said. “But why don’t you let us alone for a minute.”

  “What is he talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” she said in a low voice.

  “The hell you don’t!” Lennart shouted from the door. “Justus needs to hear a little about his mother. You go putting on some act like you’re the grieving widow and crying and shit. Who says you weren’t behind it?”

  “That’s far enough. Even if you’ve gone stark raving mad, then think of your nephew. Justus, go to your room. I’ll take care of this.”

  “I don’t want to,” Justus said.

  “We’ll talk about this later. Go to your room and close the door,” Berit said in a firm voice and more or less forced him into his bedroom. Then she turned to Lennart.

  “Who sent you here with this disgusting babble?”

  “Dick, do you remember him? Sure you do, you probably remember his teeth.”

  “Stop it!”

  The anger made her voice rise an octave.

  “Shut the door!” she shouted at Justus.

  “You can’t scare me by screaming. There are people who say you had something to do with John’s death.”

  She stared at him.

  “Fucking idiot,” she hissed. “You goddamned fucking idiot.”

  “Shove it up your ass.”

  “First you tell me who is spreading these lies about me.”

  “They aren’t lies. Micke told me.”

  “Micke Andersson? I thought you knew me. And John,” she said.

  “In the stillest waters,” he said, and she slapped him in the face.

  “It’s time for you to go now.”

  “Look here, bitch,” he said and grabbed her arm as Justus burst out of his room.

  “Stop fighting!” he shouted. “Stop!”

  Berit embraced her son but he freed himself. Anger convulsed his face, he sniffed and stared helplessly at her.

  “Justus, don’t listen to him.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lennart said derisively. “Mossa called you a whore and that’s a good name for you, the way you carried on with that neighbor of yours.”

  “You mean Stellan? He’s gay! He hugs everyone. You know that, Justus. That’s just Stellan.”

  “And what about Dick Lindström. You’ve been with him too, haven’t you? Did you like the way he bit you?”

  “You are not in your right mind,” Berit said calmly. “You are a sick man living in a sick world.”

  “Who’s Dick?” Justus asked.

  “He’s a friend of John, someone Berit has been getting it on with. Going behind John’s back with.”

  “He came on to me once, tried to feel me up, but I fought him off. You were here, for God’s sake. I was cooking in the kitchen, while the rest of you sat in here playing cards. I didn’t want to say anything because John would have tried to kill him.”

  “So that’s your story now, is it?”

  “There’s never been a different story. He tried to feel me up, he was disgusting. Do you really think I would…”

  Berit didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Don’t believe a word he says,” she told Justus. “He’s sick.”

  “Don’t say stuff like that,” Lennart said.

  Justus looked at the two of them with a blank expression, then walked into his room and slammed the door.

  “Are you happy now, you bastard?” Berit said. “He has enough on his mind without you coming here with your shit. Go now, before I kill you. And don’t you ever come here again, or I’m calling the cops.”

  “If anyone should call it would be me,” Lennart said. “Did John know about this? Is that why he died? If it is, you’re going to be dead soon.”

  Berit stared at him.

  “You shithead! God, how I hate you. Running around, drinking all the time. John tried to get out and he succeeded, but you still run around like the disgusting wino you are. And you have the nerve to come here and threaten me, you damn scumbag. It’s like John s
aid, you never grew up. He despised you, do you know that? He hated all your talk about Ymergatan and pool halls. That was all a hundred years ago. Is it anything to talk about? Pathetic small-time gangsters who terrorized the block. Go drown yourself, pisshead. You think you were really something then, like kings, but purse snatching and thinner sniffing only kills your brain. John had the guts to leave all that behind, but you’re still crawling around in the shit. Do you know that John hated all your loose talk but he put up with it because he was your brother—otherwise he would have thrown you out a long time ago.”

  Berit stopped abruptly, chest heaving. Lennart was smiling tauntingly at her, but she could see fear in his eyes, and for a moment she felt a twinge of guilt. His smile stiffened into a grimace, a macabre mask, behind which a desperate anguish became more and more apparent. He drew back, out of the apartment and into the stairwell, still with lifted head but then the twitch came, the one Berit knew so well. He drew air in through his nose, bent over and sobbed. It was as if her dagger had only now reached his heart. His eyes grew dim and restless, he turned and charged down the stairs with thundering steps.

  She heard the door downstairs shut. As if in a fog she shut her own door and sank to the floor. The only noise was the sound of the aquarium pump. There was only silence from Justus’s room. Berit looked up. It was as if the boy’s anxieties and questions pulsated through the closed door. She should go in and talk to him, but couldn’t summon the strength. Her body no longer obeyed her. Lennart’s talk and her attack had drained her completely. She had held herself together for so long, spent so much time talking to Justus. They had watched TV in the evenings, ostensibly watched, that is, but really talking. Berit had reminisced about times in her and John’s life, tried to create images that Justus would be able to treasure. She had told him about John’s youth, leaving out the worst, talked about how skillful and admired he had been at work, his knowledge of cichlids and how much he loved his son. She knew that the dead walked alongside the living. Now the myth of John was born, the image of a man who put his family first, whose goal in life had been to create a secure childhood for Justus.

  The night before, she had told Justus that John had opened a bank account when Justus was born and that every month, no matter how hard up they were, he deposited 150 kronor. She had shown him the latest deposit and he had sat with the slip of paper in his hand for a long time.

  Now Lennart was threatening to tear this all down, and this double pain knocked her to the ground. How long would she be able to carry on? Her work as a disability attendant did not provide her with enough income, and the possibilities of going to full-time were slim. She had no education, no contacts. Of course she would receive something after John, she didn’t know how much yet, but it would be hard. She wanted to spare her son the worst of it, especially now.

  She got up with a great effort and stopped outside Justus’s door. It was completely quiet in there. She knocked and opened the door. He was sitting on the bed and took no notice of her when she came in.

  “You don’t believe him, do you? He’s full of lies.”

  Justus stared down into the bed.

  “He’s confused, Justus. He’s heard some rumors and he’s looking for someone to blame. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “As if we don’t have enough to deal with,” she said with a sigh and sat down at his desk. “I have never been unfaithful or as much as looked at another man. Your father was enough for me, do you understand? We had a good relationship. People are surprised that we stuck together for so many years, but for John and me there was nobody else.”

  “But there was something,” Justus said and gave her a hasty look.

  “No, nothing,” she said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “Then why did Lennart say that stuff?”

  Again she tried to explain to him that Lennart was living in another world, one in which there was nothing other than John’s death.

  “You and I can talk about him, remember him together, and we have each other. Lennart has nothing.”

  “Daddy liked Lennart,” Justus said very quietly. “Why did you say those things to him?”

  He didn’t say anything else, but in his eyes she saw something she had never seen before. Grief and hate, which aged his face, as if the hate didn’t have enough place in his youthfulness. She damned her brother-in-law. She stood up, wanted to say something else, but sighed and left him, walking out into the hall. She heard him close the door behind her.

  His words about John having wanted to move worried her. They had talked about it before, but never seriously. They had both been born in Uppsala, and for her part she couldn’t see herself living anywhere else. Shit hole, he had said to Justus.

  She felt let down by the fact that he had talked to Justus—not to her, just the boy. What else had they talked about that she didn’t know about?

  Ann Lindell looked at the building in front of her. The yellow brick house reminded her of something, probably a building involved in a case from the past. Now she was out on her own, which felt strange. Normally she would have been here as part of a team, with a defined strategy and a definite goal. And although she had had to improvise somewhat before, she now had to question her every step. It was a feeling of freedom mixed with a bad conscience.

  She had called Information and received Berit Jonsson’s phone number and address. She lived in one of these brightly lit apartments. She took out her cell phone, put it back, and then looked up at the building again. She should call Haver, but it was late and perhaps this impulse was ill-founded. If she had been working she wouldn’t have hesitated for a second, but now she would be obliged to explain to Haver why she was out on her own. She sighed heavily, dialed his number, and after a few more seconds of hesitation pressed the Talk button. Rebecka Haver answered after the first ring. Lindell heard in the way she answered that she expected it to be her husband.

  “May I speak to Ola Haver?” Lindell asked without introducing herself.

  There was a second’s pause on the other end before Rebecka answered.

  “He’s at work,” she said.

  Silence.

  “Who is this?”

  “Thank you, I’ll call back,” Lindell said and hung up. You idiot, she thought to herself. They must have caller ID.

  She was overcome with shame and she cursed her clumsiness. He was at work. She could reach him there but now it felt as if it would simply compound her mistake.

  The phone rang and Berit lifted the receiver as if she was expecting news of another death. But the caller was a woman she had read about in the paper and heard John talk about: Ann Lindell, with the police. What surprised Berit was that she sounded so tired, and that even though it was late she wanted to come by and have a few words with her.

  Ann Lindell came in a few minutes later. She was carrying a little baby in her arms.

  “This is Erik,” she said.

  “You bring your children to work with you?”

  “I’m not officially on duty right now,” Lindell said. “But I’m still helping out a little.”

  “Helping out a little,” Berit repeated. “And there’s no one else to look after the baby?”

  “I’m a single mom,” Lindell said and carefully laid Erik on the sofa. He had woken up as soon as they entered Berit’s building but fallen asleep again when she took him out of the stroller and carried him up the stairs in her arms. Berit turned off one of the lamps so that it wouldn’t shine in his eyes. The two women quietly watched the sleeping baby for a while.

  “What do you want?”

  There was a note of impatience in her voice, as well as something that Lindell judged to be fear.

  “I’m genuinely sorry for what has happened,” Lindell said. “John was a good man.” She unconsciously used Ottosson’s words.

  “Yes,” Berit said.

  “I think he was murdered for money, and I think you’re sitting on that money right now.”

&
nbsp; “Me, sitting on the money?”

  Berit shook her head. There were too many questions, impressions. First Lennart, then Justus, and now this off-duty officer.

  “It means you may be in danger,” Lindell said.

  Berit looked at her and tried to understand the full implication of her words.

  “Quite honestly I don’t care about the money,” Lindell said. “It was John’s and now it’s yours, but a lot of money always brings risk with it.”

  It was a stab in the dark from Lindell’s side. She didn’t know for sure if the motive was money or if Berit knew where it was. She wasn’t able to judge Berit’s expression to determine if she had known about John’s poker winnings or not.

  “If we assume he won all this money, did he have some friend that he would tell?”

  “No,” Berit said immediately. She thought about Micke, and Lennart’s words came back to her.

  “What about Micke?” Lindell said, as if she had been reading her thoughts.

  “What do you want?” Berit asked. “It’s late, you have a baby with you, you ask a lot of questions but you’re not on duty. Who do you think you are?”

  Lindell shook her head and glanced at Erik, who was sleeping peacefully.

  “I just had an idea,” she said. “I was talking with a colleague of mine today and I had the idea to…well, I don’t know exactly.”

  She looked at Berit. She had heard her described as beautiful and Lindell could see her beauty, though most of it was gone. The fatigue, grief, and tension had carved into her skin like knives, and her carriage bore witness to enormous emotional and physical exhaustion.

  “How is your son?” Lindell asked.

  Berit heaved a sob. She stood in front of Lindell with no pretense, looked her in the eyes, and cried. Lindell had seen a great deal, but Berit expressed the deepest despair she had ever seen. Perhaps it was the quiet way in which she was crying that amplified it? A scream of pain, grief, and a collapsed life would have been easier to take, but Berit’s steady gaze and quiet tears touched Lindell deeply. Erik shifted uneasily and Lindell felt close to tears herself.

  “I think I should go,” she said and rubbed her cheek. “It was silly of me to come here. I just had a strange feeling, almost a physical compunction to come by.”