The princess of Burundi by Kjell Eriksson

sheets onto the floor. We who never won anything but played anyway. Week after week, year after year, in the hopes of the big win. The rush. Happiness .
    “We didn’t know what we were doing,” he said aloud. “We didn’t know shit about the horses.”
    If they had been tropical-fish races we would have cleaned house , he thought as he picked all the papers from the floor. Minna had taught him something besides drinking wine: If you let things start piling up on the floor you know you’re on your way out.
    He rested his head against the windowpane, mumbled his friend’s name, and looked at the snow falling outside. He normally liked Christmas and all the preparations, but he knew this view from his kitchen window of his neighbors’ holiday decorations would hereafter always be connected with the memory of John’s death.
     

    Lennart Jonsson was making his way through the snow. A car honked angrily at him as he crossed Vaksalagatan. Lennart waved his fist in the air. The red lights disappeared toward the east. He was gripped by a feeling of unfairness. Others got to ride in cars while he had to walk, jumping over the mounds of plowed snow, crossing here and there to find cleared footpaths.
    If he looked up and west he saw Christmas lights stretching in toward the center of town like a row of pearls. The snow crunched under his boots. A woman had once told him she wanted to eat that sound that shoes made on the snow when it was very cold. He always remembered her words when he walked in crunchy snow. What had she meant? He liked it, but didn’t really understand.
    A car with a Christmas tree on the roof drove by on Salabacksgatan. Apart from that there was no one. He stopped, letting his head hang down as if he were drunk, and realized he was crying. Most of all he wanted to lie down in the snow and die like his brother. His only brother. Dead. Murdered. The desire for revenge tore through his body like a red-hot iron, and he knew the pain after John’s death would let up only when his murderer was dead.
    Missing John was something he would have to live with. He pulled up the zipper on his down jacket. He was wearing only a T-shirt underneath. He walked along the street with a gait so foreign to him that he noticed it physically. He who normally rushed around without a thought was now proceeding with deliberation, scrutinizing the buildings around him, noticing details like the overflowing garbage can at the bus stop and the snow-covered walker, things to which he would normally never even have given a second thought.
    It was as if his brother’s death had sharpened his senses. He had only a few beers in him, John’s beers. He had stayed with Berit until Justus had gone to sleep. Now he was sober, alert as never before, watching his neighborhood slowly being covered by a white shroud.
    The snow crunched under his feet and he wanted to eat not only the sound but the whole city, the whole damn place; he wanted to tear the whole place down.
    At Brantings square he was only a few blocks from home, but he stopped when he was halfway across. A tractor was working its way methodically through the masses of snow, plowing the parking spaces, entrances, and exits.
    Was John already dead when he was dumped in Libro? Lennart didn’t know, he had forgotten to ask. John got cold easily. His thin frame was not built for this weather. With his slender hands he should have been a pianist. Instead he became a welder and an expert in tropical fish. Uncle Eugene used to joke about how John should go on the Double or Nothing show on TV since he knew everything about those fish down to the last fin and stripe of color.
    Lennart watched the tractor, and when it passed close to him he held up his hand in greeting. The driver waved back. A young man, about twenty. He pressed a little harder on the gas when he saw that Lennart was still there, put it in reverse with a confidently careless hand movement, came to an abrupt stop, adjusted his