The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [39]
“What did you catch?”
“Perch and pike, mostly. John sometimes talked about going back there again, but we never did, like with so many things. When we sat in the boat it was like being kids again. We could row from shore to shore without effort. The only break in the forest was the clearing where Eugene’s house was. It was a converted shed with a storage locker made out of sugar crates fastened together. The lake was like a sealed room. John oftened talked about those trips. In late winter Eugene would take us wood-grousing. We walked in the darkness over the swaying ice until we came to a felling area where he had made a shelter out of twigs and branches. We curled up in there. John always liked little places like that. The small lake and the tiny shelter.”
“He also worked for a small company,” Fredriksson added.
Mikael nodded.
“He wasn’t really a troublemaker, not even when he was younger. As long as we stuck to Ymer and Frodegatan, everything was fine. When we were little you could get almost anything in Almtuna, our suburb. There were five grocery stores within ten minutes’ walk. Now there isn’t even a place called Almtuna. Have you seen that sign, over by the Vaksala school?”
Fredriksson shook his head.
“It says ‘Fålhagen.’ All the old names are disappearing. I don’t know who makes those decisions, that no place should retain the old names. Eriksdal and Erikslund are also gone. Even Stabby is called ‘Outer Luthagen.’”
“I’ve moved here recently,” said Fredriksson, who was not familiar with all the old areas and districts of Uppsala.
“I think they do it to confuse us.”
“‘Luthagen’ probably sounds better than ‘Stabby’ in the real estate ads.”
“Maybe,” Mikael said, “it’s about the money, then. I think about the old days more now. Must be age.”
“And what do you see?” said Fredriksson, who found he was enjoying the discussion.
“The yards. Kids. There were a lot of us. John and Lennart and others.” Mikael stopped and his face took on a sad and starved expression.
“It was a long time ago, but it feels so close,” he said. “When did it all go to hell?”
“For John and Lennart, you mean?”
“Not only them. You know their old man worked on the railroad. His dad too. He helped build Port Arthur, which was supposed to be employee housing for rail folk. But we lived up on Frodegatan. I felt a real connection with them back then—not anymore. That’s what gets me. I take a walk through the old neighborhoods sometimes. For John and Lennart I think it all started back when Lennart was twelve and me and John were nine. We had been playing bandy in Fålhagen. There was a big field out there that was hosed down every winter. Lennart had swiped a wallet in the dressing room from a guy named Håkan. I sometimes ran into him downtown. Lennart took out the wallet as we were teetering home on our skates. Nineteen kronor. We were scared shitless, but Lennart just laughed.”
“It was the needle that became a bowl of silver,” Fredriksson injected, referring to the old folk tale.
Mikael nodded and continued. Fredriksson leaned over and checked to make sure the miniature tape recorder on his desk was still going.
“Nineteen kronor. I didn’t want any of it, I was too scared, so Lennart and John divvied it up between them. Lennart was always fair with his brother. That was the problem for John—having a big brother who always shared. Did it start then? I don’t know.”
“Lennart and John were close?”
Mikael nodded.
“Did Lennart drag John into something?”
“It sounds plausible, of course, but I don’t think so. Lennart always protected his brother.”
“Maybe he involved him in something without being aware of it.”
Mikael looked doubtful.
“What could it have been, though? Lennart was a small-time guy.”
“Maybe he was on to something big this time,” Fredriksson said. “But okay, let’s leave it. I also wanted to ask you what you thought of John and Berit’s relationship. Were they happy together?”
Mikael snorted.
“Happiness?” he said. “That’s quite a word, but all right, I