The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [80]
“What’s that white stuff on your clothes?”
Haver looked down at his chest and blushed.
“Ann was baking,” he said sheepishly. “I must have brushed against something.”
“Oh, she was baking,” Rebecka said and disappeared into the bedroom.
He looked around. The kitchen was sparkling clean and everything had been put in its place. The counter gleamed. The only thing that marred the picture was a candle that had burned halfway, and a glass of wine with some dregs left in the bottom. Candle wax had run down in a striking pattern over the verdigris-coated candlestick, an object Haver had inherited from his grandmother. He still remembered how she would light it on family celebrations and special holidays. The wineglass was green and he recalled buying it with Rebecka in Gotland during their first trip together. The wine was a red wine that Haver had bought for New Year’s Eve, which they had been planning to celebrate with Sammy Nilsson and his wife.
He heard her moving around in the bedroom. The roller blind was pulled down, a dresser drawer was shut, and the bedside lamp was turned on. He could imagine what she looked like, the tight-lipped attitude and slightly abrupt movements she made when she was upset.
He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer, then sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the storm to break.
Twenty-six
Lennart gave a short laugh and got out of bed. The alarm clock had woken him brutally. He laughed when he imagined how everyone around him would react to seeing the alcoholic, good-for-nothing Lennart Jonsson get dressed, sober, with the coffeemaker going and the Thermos set out, all at a quarter to six in the morning. No beer gripped by shaking hands and no fumbling search for a half-smoked cigarette under piles of dirty dishes. A scene flashed through his mind: a morning he had woken up to see Klasse Nordin drinking from the plastic bags he had earlier vomited wine into. Fuck those morning-afters, he thought.
At least he wouldn’t be cold. His father would have envied him his Helly Hansen gear. Albin had often complained about the cold when he came back from work. In the summer he had complained about the heat. The temperature was rarely perfect, but on the other hand Albin almost never complained about anything else. Not even during the worst of Lennart’s teenage years, when he was the most messed up.
“T-t-try t-to act l-l-l-like a human being,” he had sometimes managed to get out. But he had rarely said anything stronger than that.
Lennart wasn’t used to it, but it felt good to be getting up at half past five. He was almost able to convince himself that he was a hardworking man going about his daily business on an early December morning, with the snow coming down even heavier than before. The fact that he was setting out to work with something that fell into his father’s sphere reinforced the sense of importance. He was going to accomplish something today, point to a sign and say, We’re clearing snow away here, please walk on the other side of the street. Maybe even add a please if it was a civilized-looking person. Most of all he wanted some of his drinking buddies to walk by. Or, on second thought, no. They would just start shooting the breeze and distract him from his work.
He owned a good pair of work boots, snow overalls, and a heavy winter coat. In addition he had the mittens from