The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [41]
The feeling stayed with him for a minute or two, then the hostile voices returned, the shoves, and the looks. The linden trees no longer lined the street like leafy pillars but terrifying statues, black and cold, suggestive of funerals and death. He knew where this feeling came from, but did everything to suppress it, to avoid images of the graveyard where his parents lay buried.
Vincent Hahn was a bad man, and he knew it. If his mother and father could be brought back to life they would be horrified to see that their youngest child had become a misanthrope, a person who was suspicious of everyone and everything and who—and this was the worst—saw it as his task to revenge himself on those around him for their wrongdoings.
There could not be punishment enough for them. Hadn’t he suffered? But who cared? Everything simply kept going as if he didn’t exist. I’m here! he wanted to shout out to everyone on Bangårdsgatan, but he didn’t, and no one even so much as slowed down to pass him as they hurried on their way.
Air, he thought, I’m nothing but air to you. But this air will poison you, my breath will annihilate you, envelop you in death. He had made his decision. Now there was no fear, no hesitation.
He laughed out loud, checked his watch, and knew that he would begin this very evening. It was wonderful to finally have a plan, a meaning. A couple of retirees emerged from the bingo hall. Vincent nodded to them. To him they symbolized defeat. He didn’t want to stay with this thought because it led to both his source of strength and his weakness. The thoughts, memories. Until now they had held him down as an insignificant creature. He nodded to the old couple, loyal companions from the solitary community of the bingo hall, victims like himself. In some way he was sure they would understand. Living, but dead.
His bingo win made him strong, almost overconfident. He decided to go to a café. It would have to be the Güntherska. He could maintain his sense of control from the sofa in the corner.
Fifteen
The photograph in the evening paper was of a young John Jonsson. Gunilla Karlsson recognized him immediately, as she would have even if they had used a recent picture of him. She had bumped into him just a few months ago, unexpectedly, at the grocery store. And on top of that she had had Justus in preschool. Actually not in her room, but he was a boy who stood out. It was mostly Berit who dropped him off and picked him up, but sometimes John turned up in the afternoon, straight from work. He had a nice smell. She had wondered what it was for a long time before she had the courage to ask. He had been completely at a loss until he realized she meant the smell of welding smoke. He had exused himself, looked extremely embarrassed, and mumbled something about not having had time to shower. Gunilla had been equally embarrassed and assured him that she liked the smell. There they were, with Justus between them busy putting on his warm things, both blushing furiously and looking at each other. Then they had burst into laughter.
After that time he often smiled at her. He told her about the body shop and offered their services in case the preschool needed any repairs. She had thanked him but said she didn’t think they needed to have anything welded. “But please feel free to stop by more often,” she had added, “we’re short on men around here.”
He had looked at her in the old way, which she remembered so well from their days at school, and felt warm inside. He liked her words—that’s what his look told her—but Gunilla also read something else there, a spark of attraction.
She would have wanted to kiss him, not passionately, just a peck on the cheek to draw in more of that welding smoke that had penetrated all his pores. It was a fleeting impulse that lasted no more than a second,