The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [9]
Ann nodded. She remembered Albert Risberg, the old man who lived upstairs at Ramnäs farm, where Edvard was working when they first met.
“He’s become a real Roslagen boy.”
Asta paused, took a sip of her coffee, and looked at Ann.
“I’m sorry things turned out the way they did,” she said. “It really is too bad.”
“I can’t say it’s been the best time of my life,” said Ann.
“Edvard isn’t a strong man. Anton often said that to me.”
Ann didn’t want to hear any more, and it was as if Asta could tell, because she interrupted herself.
“Life doesn’t always turn out the way you expect,” she said with a crooked smile.
“Has he…?”
“No, he lives alone,” Asta said.
“You’re reading my thoughts,” said Ann.
“Your thoughts are an open book, my dear. Do you still love him?”
Ann nodded. She didn’t want to cry, not in a supermarket with crowds of people. She would let the tears come when she was alone. Of course she still loved him.
“These things take time,” Asta said. “Life will get better again, you’ll see.”
These things take time, Ann repeated to herself. Had Asta talked to Edvard? Perhaps he wants to meet with me—to forgive? She wanted to ask Asta what she had meant but feared the answer.
“Maybe,” she said and stood up. “I have to keep shopping. Thanks for the chat.”
Asta didn’t say anything. She stayed at the table and was still there when Ann walked by a little later on her way to the deli counter. That gray hair, her thin hands on the table. Ann sensed that she was thinking about Anton.
Five
He felt drawn to the moss peeking out from under the snow. If it had been summer he would have stretched out on it for a little while, taken a short rest. He breathed deeply. Once, twice. She had turned on a lamp in the living room. He was able to catch a few brief glimpses of her.
“I am a forest warrior,” he said aloud.
It was an appealing thought, that he was a creature from outside, approaching the warm windows from the moss and the darkness.
Suddenly a light went on in the bedroom. She was naked from the waist up except for a light-colored bra. She opened the closet, took out a sweater, and pulled it on in a motion so quick that he swore. He wanted to see her. How he had dreamed about those breasts!
She remained in the bedroom, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, making some adjustments. She walked closer to the mirror and leaned forward. He had to do the same in order to keep watching her. The distance from the window to the tree he was hidden behind was around five meters. He sniffed the trunk. A smell of moisture, nothing else.
She turned off the light and left the room. He waited for ten minutes before gingerly approaching the patio and crouching down behind the railing. What was his plan? Indecision caused him to hesitate. He’d thought he had it all figured out, but now that he was here, so close to one of his tormentors, it no longer seemed appealing.
Vincent Hahn felt himself going back twenty-five, thirty years. There had been moments of greatness even then, moments when had he decided to turn the tables. These intentions, however, inevitably crumbled in the face of reality. She still had the power to unnerve him, a fact that infuriated him but did nothing to help him throw off these feelings of inferiority and passivity.
Six
A knife, Haver thought. What kind of person kills with a knife? Lacerations to the chest and arms, severed fingers, burn marks—all pointed to a case of torture. He scrawled a few lines on his notepad before he rolled his chair up to the computer and started to write a report. After he had entered the preliminary data, there was a knock on the door. Fredriksson looked in.
“Little John,” Fredriksson said.
“I’ve accessed all our material on him.”
“It’s damned cold out there.”
Fredriksson still looked frozen.
“His brother is still active from time to time,” he said and sat down.
Haver pushed his chair back and looked at his colleague. He wanted to finish the report but realized that Fredriksson