The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [70]
“That blow she gave you could have killed you, if you didn’t have such a strong skull.”
He sank down onto a chair. She put a hand on his bandaged head. If only he had died, she thought, no one would have missed him. But then she instantly regretted her thought—it was unfair. He was a human being like anyone else.
“Would you like some tea?”
He shook his head weakly.
“A little juice?”
He nodded. She quickly made up a pitcher of rhubarb juice and poured him a glass. He drained it. The gentle expression returned.
“Wolfgang says hello,” she said. “He called me a few days ago.”
Despite their divorce and the years of conflict, Vivan and Wolfgang stayed in touch. He called from Tel Aviv three or four times a year.
“You haven’t called me.”
“I’ve tried to, but you aren’t home very much. Anyway, Wolfgang is fine but he complained about all the trouble they’re having.”
“It’s the fucking Arabs,” Vincent said.
Vivan was very careful not to get into the subject of the Israel-Palestine conflict. Instead she relayed gossip from Wolfgang. One of their cousins had had a grandchild, and a few other relatives had taken a trip to Poland. Vincent listened with interest. Vivan had discovered that he liked hearing news even about distant relatives, had memorized names and trivial facts about them to a degree that amazed her.
“I heard that Benjamin got married,” he said, and Vivan pretended to be surprised.
“Really? I had no idea. Who did he get married to?”
“Some American girl who bought a house in East Jerusalem.”
They continued to talk about people they both knew. Vincent grew calmer, drank more juice. Vivan kept him entertained with questions and comments. She suggested they celebrate Christmas together and his face lit up a bit when she said that.
The attack came out of nowhere. Vivan hardly had time to register what was happening, let alone understand where it had come from. She died unknowing, with a small gurgling sound not unlike that which arises from a plugged drain.
He laid her on the bed and was somewhat reminded of Julia. They had the same beautiful air of peace. The marks on her neck from the phone cord were like the angry red strands of a necklace. The blue-toned tip of her tongue stuck out a few centimeters. Vincent chuckled at it and poked it back into her mouth, then quickly pulled his fingers away, convinced that she was going to bite him.
His chuckles gave way to an unarticulated roar, which died away almost at once, and he sat down on the floor to look at his sister-in-law. Almost family, he thought. As close to family as I can get in Uppsala. His feeling of loneliness was intensified by the sound of the clock ticking, as if to say, You are dead, you are dead.
Vincent reached for the clock, which he remembered Wolfgang had bought on a business trip. He threw it against the wall. An Argentine tango was playing on the radio in the kitchen.
He put his hand on hers. It was still warm, and suddenly he felt dizzy. The work of a moment and a person is gone, he thought. He let his hand travel up her arm, he stroked it lovingly. Somewhere in the innermost depths of his confused mind he sensed that he had committed an unforgivable act. Vivan, the one who had smiled at him in the window, the one who had been frightened by his appearance but nonetheless given him shelter, the one who had given him juice. Almost family.
He sensed that she had been as lonely as he, even though she always talked about her girlfriends. He thought suddenly that he could take his own life, that he should do it.
He got up, walked into the kitchen, picked up a chair that had been knocked over, and drank some more juice. When he took hold of the pitcher to pour himself yet another glass, he experienced something like an electric shock. A greeting from Vivan. It was her hand that had last held the pitcher. Now she was making her presence known. She would do this as