The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [57]
He went to get the atlas out of the bookcase. Malawi was a long way from Burundi.
“What are you doing?”
Berit was in the doorway. Justus heard his grandmother groaning in the hall, the bench creaking as she sat down.
“Just looking at something.”
“Is it going okay?”
Justus nodded.
“You won’t spill anything, will you?”
He didn’t answer. Of course he wouldn’t spill anything. Had John ever spilled anything? The Princess of Burundi looked at him.
“Hello, Justus,” his grandmother said even though they had said hello when she got there. She had managed to put on one boot.
“Hello,” he said and took a bucket out to the bathroom.
“Come here,” said the old woman when he came back out. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Justus went up to her reluctantly. She had been crying. She cried a lot. She pulled him to her.
“You are my grandchild,” she said, and in that moment he wanted to escape. He knew what was coming.
“Take good care of yourself.”
He didn’t like listening to her voice. When he was younger he had been afraid of her. He wasn’t afraid anymore, but the feeling of being ill at ease was still there.
“John was so proud of you. You have to take good care of yourself.”
“Of course, Grandma.”
He freed himself from her grasp.
“Do you need any help getting home?”
Aina was always afraid of slipping on the ice and John or Justus would often follow her home.
“No, I’ll be all right. I have studded boots.”
“I have to finish cleaning the aquarium,” he said and left. Then he turned. She looked so helpless with her unwashed hair poking out from under the knitted cap and with her other boot in her hand. Berit came by with a full bucket. She smiled. He took it from her and went to empty it.
His arms were starting to hurt. Next time he would take the hose and run it all the way into the bathroom, but this time he wanted to use the bucket.
The fish were swimming around in synchronized, sweeping motions. He watched them. In the wild these flocks could be seen by the thousands with their territories in such close proximity that they sometimes looked like a giant metaflock. Every part of the reef had its own flock, its own species, perhaps closely related to another species but with its own coloring. The sandbanks between the reefs divided them up.
The Princesses were substrate spawners, others in the tank were mouth brooders, but they were all cichlids, John’s favorite. He preferred African cichlids even though the South African cichlids were more in vogue these days.
Justus had plowed through just about everything there was to read about cichlids. In the process he had gained an interest in geography and knew the African continent better than anyone else in his class. Once he had even ended up in a fight over Africa. One of his classmates had said something about how Africans should climb back up into the trees, where they belonged.
Justus had reacted instinctively. It was as if the fish had generated an identification with all of black Africa, its lakes and rivers, savannahs, tropical rain forests, and even the people who populated his and John’s continent. Africa was good. It was home to the cichlids. Home to their dreams.
He had struck without a second’s thought.
“He doesn’t know shit about Africa,” he had said to the teacher who broke up the fight.
They started calling him “Jungle Boy,” but he paid no attention and eventually they lost interest.
“I talked to your teacher,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “She sends you her regards. Are you going to go back to school before Christmas?”
“I don’t know,” Justus said.
“It could be good for you.”
“Has Grandma left?