The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [60]
Suddenly Mossa turned. Lennart was up close now, perhaps only a few meters away.
“What do you want?”
“Hey, Mossa. How’s it going?”
“What do you want?” he repeated and let his cigarette fall to the ground.
“I need some help,” Lennart said, and immediately regretted it. Mossa helped no one except his mother and his handicapped brother. He looked back at Lennart without any expression.
“Your brother was clumsy. That is that,” Mossa said.
Lennart felt a mixture of apprehensive joy and fear. Mossa had recognized him and was going to talk.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. He was clumsy, careless.”
“Do you know something?”
Mossa lit another cigarette and Lennart moved closer. The Iranian looked up and pushed one hand into his pocket.
“No.”
“You haven’t heard anything?”
“Your brother was a good fellow, not like so many of the others. He reminded me of a childhood friend I had in Shiraz.”
The Iranian paused, smoked.
“I only know he was up to something. Something big, at least for him, if you know what I mean. I heard something back in the fall, something about a job. John suddenly had a little money, more than he usually put in. He was in a game and wanted to increase the stakes, to try to win more.”
Lennart stamped his feet anxiously as he listened. His shoes were letting in moisture. Mossa’s talk was making him think.
“And he won.”
“How much?”
Mossa smiled. He always did when it came to poker winnings.
“More than you’ve ever had your hands on. Almost two hundred thou’.”
“He won two hundred thousand kronor? What did he say?”
“Not much. He took his money and went home. It was half past four in the morning, I think.”
“Where was this?”
“I lost thirty-five thousand myself,” Mossa said.
Lennart felt betrayed. John had won a fortune and not said a word about it. It was as if Mossa could read his thoughts.
“As he left he said something about how things were finally coming together for him, that he was close to realizing a dream. And that you would be involved.”
“Me?”
“Yes, I assume he only has one brother. He said that his brother would come along.”
“Come along?”
“I thought you knew what he was planning.”
Lennart shook his head in bewilderment. He was to come along? But what was it? Where? Lennart understood nothing. He hadn’t heard so much as the ghost of a hint.
“My friend from Shiraz also died too early. He was burned to death. Your brother died in the snow.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Mossa gave Lennart a somewhat gentler look.
“I think John liked you,” he said and took out the cigarettes again.
“Who else knew about the money?”
“Ask his friend—Micke.”
“Did he know?”
“I don’t know, but John mentioned his name.”
An older couple walked by.
“I have to go now,” Mossa said, turned, passed by the couple, and walked around the corner toward Cathedral bridge.
Lennart remained rooted to his spot, overwhelmed by the information. What was he supposed to think? Had Mossa been deliberately misleading him? But why would he do something like that? Lennart had the feeling that the Iranian had actually been waiting for him, that he had wanted to tell him about John and the poker winnings.
What did Micke know? The damned weasel. He had been so sincere and sobbed about the friendship and not said a word about the money.
Lennart stamped his feet to rid them of the snow and cold. He decided to go to Micke immediately and get him up against the wall. It hit him that he had forgotten to ask Mossa who the other players had been. Maybe one of them had wanted to get back at John for his loss. Mossa had lost thirty-five thousand, but someone else must have lost substantially more.
Mossa would probably never reveal their names. It was against the unwritten rules of the game. There were winners and losers, but no one could run off at the mouth about it afterward. On the other hand, losses were hard for people to get off their minds, there was