The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [44]
The man’s breath stank of decay. Gunilla tried to kick back with her legs like a frightened horse but had no strength. The man only chuckled, as if her show of resistance amused him.
“Let’s go in,” he said smoothly.
Gunilla desperately tried to place the voice. She had been so stupid. He must have been hiding behind the door.
He dragged her back into the apartment without allowing her to see him. He turned off the light by pressing his back against the button, then dragged her farther into the room and gave her a shove so that she fell into the sofa.
“Hi, Gunilla,” he said. “I just wanted to drop in for a visit.”
His voice was so familiar. She studied his face, which was narrow, with two deep lines that ran down his cheeks, a black beard, almost bald on top, and with a smile on his lips that frightened and confused her.
“I’m talking to you.”
“What?” Gunilla said.
She had seen his lips move but had no idea what he had said.
“Do you remember me?”
Gunilla nodded. Suddenly she knew who he was. She started to shake.
“What do you want?”
The man laughed. He had bad teeth, disintegrating and covered in tartar.
“Did you kill the rabbit?”
Vincent Hahn’s features stiffened in a mask, a laughing mask.
“I want to see your breasts,” he said.
She flinched as if he had struck her.
“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed.
“That’s what you said before, but now I’m the one who decides.”
He didn’t look so strong, she thought. His shoulders and wrists were thin, but she knew how easily one could underestimate a person. Even mere children could be moved by rage to incredible feats of strength, which their bodies did not seem capable of. They had talked about self-defense at the daycare, once, when one of her colleagues had completed a course. She knew she had a chance to escape if only the opportunity arose. No one was invincible.
“If you show me your breasts I’ll leave.”
He looked tired. Maybe he was on medication.
“Then I’ll leave,” he repeated, and leaned forward so that his sour breath wafted over her again. She had to fight against revealing her disgust.
What was the right thing to say?
“Take off your sweater.”
“It’s certainly been a long time.”
“Or I’ll lay you on the ground.”
She stood up. Suddenly she felt sorry for the man in front of her. At school he had always been the one the other students looked down on or treated as an outsider, someone who never fit in. But he had not been completely without friends, and he actually seemed to manage his schoolwork well. A few years ago, when she was leafing through her yearbook, she had seen a picture of Vincent’s thin figure. She had thought at that time that it was strange how Vincent seemed to have gone through high school virtually unchanged—lanky, acne-ridden, and to all appearances unaffected by the usual emotional and hormonal storms that descended on everyone else, especially the boys. He had simply been there, attentive to the teachers, sometimes with an air of superiority toward the other students, but often ingratiating, wanting to please.
“I need to have a drink,” she said. “I’m so scared. Would you like some wine?”
He looked back at her with a total lack of expression. She wondered if he had even understood what she had said.
“Would you like some wine?”
He grabbed her when she tried to walk past. Her arm hurt. He pulled her over but she managed to keep her balance.
“Let me go. I’m only getting some wine. Then you can see my breasts.”
Don’t show your fear, she thought, as the image of the strangled rabbit with his slit belly made her whimper softly. She pulled off her sweater and saw Vincent sway at the sight of her upper body.
“Okay, one glass,” he said and smiled.
He followed her closely. She could feel his body heat behind her back. He was breathing heavily. The wine bottle clinked against the stand and it was as if the noise startled him, because suddenly he grabbed her shoulder, the way Martin did when her neck and shoulders were tight, but this grasp was much harder and turned her around.