The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [56]
“A forty-two-year-old man was stabbed yesterday in the Sävja residential area, in south Uppsala. This is the most recent of a series of violent conflicts that have attracted attention in this area. As recently as last week ago a young woman was assaulted and in January a bus came under gunfire. The man, who lives in Uppsala, was visiting Sävja when he was attacked without provocation by some young men. According to the police, the man attempted to escape his attackers but was overcome in the vicinity of Stordammen school, where he was stabbed in the abdomen and received many kicks. His condition is described as serious but not life-threatening.”
That was all. Eva imagined the newspaper had received the information so late that they had not had the opportunity to include more. Most likely, tomorrow’s paper would include more details.
She read the article again. “Some young men.” Patrik was not a man, he was still a boy, a teenager who only two or three years ago had gone sledding and read comic books.
She had an urge to move away from the area. Settle somewhere else with her sons where there were no “violent conflicts that attracted attention.” But where would that be? Did those places even exist?
From her kitchen window she could see how her neighbors were coming to life, some were eating breakfast while watching morning TV, others were already on their way to work. She saw Helen’s man half-running toward the parking lot. He was late as usual.
Again she was struck by how isolated this block was, how the inhabitants were divided from one another by invisible walls. Even though they were neighbors they were strangers to one another. The suffering of one did not affect the other. People who had lived perhaps ten years on the same level had never set foot in one anothers’ apartments. They knew their neighbors’ names, but it could just as well be a number, an assigned code. Those who lived on level seven could be called 7:1, 7:2, 7:3, and so on.
She herself would be 14:6–1, Patrik 14:6–2, and Hugo 14:6–3. It would be simpler, at least for the authorities. They could inscribe the numbers on their foreheads.
She smiled at her crazy ideas while she set the table for breakfast.
They had once all joined together. That was when the housing association wanted to remove part of the playground and build a room to house the garbage. Then they had all assembled in the neighborhood and decided to protest. Helen had been the most active, going around with lists and putting up flyers in all the stairwells. You could say what you wanted about Helen, but she was not shy. She ended up in the newspaper. The clipping was still on her refrigerator door.
Eva stood in the window but was irritated by her limited view. She only saw a courtyard, a few buildings, and in the background an arm of the forest, or really just a few fir trees. People want to see far, she thought, because then you gain a perspective on your situation and you can discover things beyond yourself. She recalled a visit to Flatåsen in the deep northern forests of Värmland among her grandfather’s relatives, how he had brought her up on a hilltop—her grandfather called it a mountain—from which point they could look out over miles of forests and lakes. For once her grandfather had been quiet. He pointed out villages and swathes of forests where he had worked as a lumberjack in his youth.
Eva, who was in her early teens, had never before seen such large land areas at one time. They lingered up there for a long time. It was her dearest memory of her grandfather, the otherwise so gruff and at times alcoholic communist who in his bitterness no longer trusted anyone and no longer held anything to be of value.
“Everything nowadays is cat shit,” he would mutter in front of the television.
Her head was spinning with thoughts. Her usual morning effectiveness was gone and it had taken her half an hour to put out the dishes, brew some coffee, and empty the dishwasher.
She thought she was on to something important. Maybe she should talk to Johnny at