The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [102]
His words fell like heavy blows. Ottosson raised his eyebrows and Fritzén looked disgusted.
“What do you mean?” Fritzén said. “I don’t think this is the right time to air your homespun theories about the burden of guilt and the inadequacies of our society.”
“It’s always the right time,” said Berglund, now in a calmer tone of voice. “It’s our job and our responsibility to continue asking ourselves the question of what we could have done to prevent this.”
Fritzén moved as if to interrupt him again, but Lundin jumped in with a cough.
“I want to hear what Berglund has to say,” he said.
“I went up to see Oskar Pettersson on Marielundsgatan again. He knew Little John and his parents. He’s a wise old man,” Berglund said, looking at Fritzén. “We speak the same language. Most of you aren’t from around here, even if these things are the same all over Sweden, but you are also all too young. There is a kind of culturedness that exists apart from the kind transmitted by schools and universities, and Oskar Pettersson represents this educated culture. Once upon a time I think this kind of culture flourished in the neighborhood where Little John grew up, and it helped to stem the flow of today’s lawlessness. Of course, there were scum in the fifties and sixties, but there was also a social resistance that is lacking today.”
“What kind of resistance?” Sammy asked.
“Something upheld by normal people, but also by the authorities.”
“Sweden isn’t how it was,” Riis agreed. “There’s a lot of new folk now, that’s bound to lead to trouble.”
Berglund turned his head and looked at Riis.
“I know you don’t like immigrants, but both Little John and Vincent Hahn are products of Swedish social democratic policy, our so-called People’s Home. I think it is the isolation of individuals in our country that breaks them. The gap between people’s dreams and the potential to get off track is too large. What was it we once dreamed of, what did Oskar Pettersson dream of?”
The silence was overwhelming. These questions were rarely or never aired. The backdrop was dark, a pool of three thousand milliliters of blood on the street, a dead colleague. Berglund did not feel able to articulate the questions he felt deep inside, what he had experienced as he sat at home with the old concrete worker. There was something about the way Pettersson talked about the old furnace workers at the Ekeby mill. That was why he had started thinking about these things, thoughts strengthened during the walk home. During the last visit Pettersson had remembered even more about Little John and his family. With an endless series of anecdotes Pettersson had described a utopia sunk into the mire. Berglund had spent most of the time listening. There was something about his way of talking that made Berglund widen his speculations beyond the usual sphere of things. The discussion went back and forth in time. Slumbering, undiscovered, and yet familiar connections emerged. Berglund wanted to retain these thoughts, deepen and refine them, but realized his limitations.
“And this doesn’t have anything to do with svartskallar?” Riis said peevishly.
“There’s something in what you say,” Sammy Nilsson said. “I’ve felt the same thing. But I don’t think it’s a question of age or even class.”
“I think we’re getting off track again,” Fritzén said.
“Look here,” Ottosson said, “we have to be able to talk this through. We’re police officers, not hung over army reservists guarding a completely unnecessary stockpile of military goods in the forest.”
Where Ottosson had gotten this image was not clear, but most of them thought it funny. Even Riis smiled.
“Take the kids in Gottsunda or Stenhagen,” Sammy continued. “They’re so lost. I’m starting to doubt my work more and more, maybe I should become a boxing coach or something.