The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [63]
Ann was still nursing Erik but thinking seriously of weaning him. He refused to nurse on the left breast, which had now gone down to its normal shape, while the one on the right had ballooned up as big as a soccer ball. Ann often felt like a cow. She wanted to retain the closeness of nursing but also wanted her breasts back. Lately Erik had also taking to biting her.
She removed Erik’s clothing and showed Katrin the rash on his chest and back. Katrin studied them carefully and then said she thought they were a reaction to something Ann was eating.
“Think carefully about what you’re having,” she said. “Erik is reacting to something in your diet. If it were summer I would guess strawberries.”
“I’m fond of Indian food,” Ann said. “Could that be it? There’s lots of cumin and ginger in Indian food.”
“No, I think spicy food would more likely cause a stomachache.”
“And you’re sure it’s not a virus?” Ann asked, feeling helpless. She had grabbed on to this idea from the woman who ran the drop-in playgroup, a group she sometimes attended not because she really liked it but because she felt it was part of the experience.
“No, I don’t think so. Not with you still nursing him.”
Ann agreed to keep close track of what she was eating and to watch for any changes in Erik’s rash.
They sat and talked for another thirty minutes. Katrin was someone who did not shy away from asking personal questions. She intuited Ann’s bafflement in her new role as mother, probably because she had seen it before, but her penetrating questions were posed with such gentle tact that Ann felt completely relaxed. Katrin had an ability to give advice that never felt like criticism.
They said good-bye in the corridor. Ann turned and waved after a few steps, taking Erik’s hand and letting him wave too. Katrin looked suddenly shy, but held up her hand.
Ann stepped out into the weak December sun, which was now sinking ever more rapidly into the horizon, and felt a wave of gratitude. She continued on down the street and decided to stop by the station. She checked the time: shortly before two. Ottosson was probably in, and he would likely take the time to have a cup of tea and a chat.
The door was open and Lindell looked in. Ottosson was sitting at his desk, his gaze fixed on a piece of paper in front of him. She heard him humming. Then he turned the page and sighed.
“Is this a bad time?”
Ottosson flinched, looked up, and the momentary confusion gave way to a smile.
“Did I startle you?”
“No, what I was reading startled me.”
He didn’t say anything else, but he studied her.
“You look blooming with health,” he said.
Lindell smiled. He always told her that, even when she felt terrible.
“What are you doing?”
Ottosson ignored the question, instead asking her where Erik was.
“He’s sleeping in his stroller just outside your door.”
The chief got up and Lindell saw that his back pain had returned.
“It would be a pity to miss an opportunity to complain,” he said when he noticed her gaze.
They walked out together and looked at the baby. Another colleague was walking by and he also looked into the stroller. Ottosson started humming again but didn’t say anything.
“He’ll be one soon,” Lindell said. “Well, ‘soon’ is relative, I guess.”
Ottosson nodded.
“My wife sends her regards, by the way. She was talking about you the other day.”
Lindell pushed the stroller into Ottosson’s office and he shut the door.
“It’s your usual festive pre-Christmas season here,” he said. “We have a murder in Libro and a lunatic intruder in Sävja, with a possible connection between the two events. Little John, the woman, and the loony—his name is Vincent Hahn—were classmates in high school. I’ve just been reading through the few items we have on Hahn. He seems remarkable, to say the least. Complains about every little thing. We’ve recovered five thick folders containing copies of letters he’s sent over the years, with the accompanying replies