The princess of Burundi by Kjell Eriksson Page A

position, changed gears again, and spun around, preparing to take on the last sliver of snow.
    Lennart was suddenly tempted to wave the driver down and exchange a few words with him, maybe say a few things about Little John. He wanted to talk to someone who understood the importance of hands.
    He kept thinking about his brother in discrete body parts. Hands, the careful laugh, especially when he was among strangers—no one could claim that John had a dominating personality. That wiry body, its surprising strength.
    John had been good at marbles too. As a kid John was always the one who went home with a bag full of marbles and new toy soldiers in his pocket, especially mastering those difficult ten-and twelve-step games. Only Teodor, the janitor, could beat him. He came by sometimes, borrowed a marble, and sent it flying in a wide arc, taking down a soldier. Being helped in this way was cheating, strictly speaking, but no one complained. Teodor treated them all the same, and each hoped that maybe next time he would be the one to get the favor.
    Teodor laughed a lot, maybe because he sometimes had a beer or two, but mainly because he was a man who showed his feelings. He loved women, had a fear of heights, and was afraid of the dark. Apart from these important characteristics, he was most known for his expertise and efficiency in matters of building maintenance. Few could rival him in that area, especially when gripped by his famous temper.
    Sometimes Lennart thought: If we had had teachers like that, with that strength and those weaknesses that Teodor has, then we would all have become professors of something . Teodor himself was a professor of being able to sweep a set of basement stairs without raising the dust, of doing three things at once, of keeping the grounds so clean that he made picking up garbage seem like an art form, of grooming the gravel paths and flower beds so well that they looked good for two, three weeks at a time.
    We could have learned all this at school , Lennart thought while watching the tractor. Do you believe me, John? You were the only one who cared—no, that’s wrong; Mom and Dad did too, of course. Dad. With his damned stutter. His damned rooftops. All that metal crap .
    Teodor didn’t have a big tractor, just shovels to start with and then a strong old Belos with a detachable snowplow hitched to the front. John and Lennart had helped shovel basement stairs, and once, in the mid-1960s—an unbelievably snowy winter—Teodor had sent them up on the roof, fifteen meters above the ground. They were the sons of a roofer. Ropes around their middles and small shovels in their hands. Teodor sticking his head up through the trapdoor, directing, holding the ends of the ropes. The boys sliding on the slippery slate, sending the snow down and over the edge. Svensson was down below, directing pedestrians.
    One time Lennart had looked over the edge and waved to Svensson. He had waved back. Had he been sober? Maybe. Teodor in the trapdoor, terrified of looking down. To the west were Uppsala castle and the twin spires of the cathedral. To the east, Vaksala church with its pointy tower reaching like a needle toward the sky. More snow in the air. A beating heart under the winter jacket.
    When it was time to crawl back up and then down through the trapdoor, Teodor laughed with relief. They went down to the boiler room, where the yard waste was burning in a huge furnace. They warmed themselves there. The air was hot and dry, with a slightly sour smell, but good. It was a smell Lennart had not come across since.
    In a space next to the furnace there was a Ping-Pong table and sometimes they would play a round. John was the nimbler of the two. Lennart was the one who wanted to take care of matters with a smash.
    Sometimes Teodor gave them soda, serving himself a beer. John always drank Zingo. Lennart smiled at the memory. So long ago. He hadn’t thought about the boiler room for ages, but now he reconstructed the