The princess of Burundi by Kjell Eriksson Page B

various spaces, smells, piled crates with glass bottles and newspapers. So long ago. Professor Teodor had been dead for a few years.
    Lennart bowed his head like a graveside mourner. He was freezing but wanted to dwell in his memories. Once he got home, life’s fundamental shittiness would no doubt reassert itself. Then he would have a drink, if not several.
    The driver of the tractor glanced at him as he drove past. Lennart didn’t care what he thought. It was a long time since he had cared. He can go ahead and think I’m crazy .
    One time they had surprised Teodor. It was for his birthday, an even year, one of the parents must have told them. He was scared of the dark and the assembled kids heard his voice in the distance through the winding basement passage. He sang to calm his nerves. “Seven lonely nights I’ve been waiting for you…” came echoing toward them, amplified by the narrow passage, the many dark corners and nooks. When he rounded the bike storage the neighborhood kids started to sing and Teodor stiffened with fear until he understood. He listened to their rendition of “Happy Birthday” with tears in his eyes. These were his kids, he had seen them grow up, rascals he had lectured and played Ping-Pong with, the ones whose soccer ball he nabbed when they played on the soft, wet grass, and the ones he juggled with in the boiler room.
    Ten boys and a janitor in a basement. So long ago. John and his childhood. Back then before the future was set. Lennart took a deep breath. The cold air filled his lungs and he shivered. Had it always been fated that his brother would die young? It should have been he. He who had driven drunk so many times, drunk bad liquor, and hung out with drifters just living for the day. Not John, who had Berit and Justus, his fish, and those hands that had welded so many flawless seams.
    He started to walk. It was no longer snowing so heavily, and a few stars could be seen between the clouds. The plow had now moved on to the south end of the square. It had stopped, and Lennart saw the young man pull out a Thermos, screw the cap off, and pour out some coffee.
    When he passed the tractor he nodded and stopped as if on impulse. He walked over and knocked softly on the door. The guy in the tractor lowered the window about halfway.
    “Hey there,” Lennart said. “Looks like you have quite a job.”
    The young man nodded.
    “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here in the middle of the night.”
    He stepped up onto the tractor so that his head was more on the same level as the driver’s. He felt the warmth of the cabin streaming toward him.
    “My brother died yesterday. I’m a little down, as you can probably understand.”
    “Damn,” the young man said and put his cup down on the dashboard.
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-three.”
    Lennart didn’t know how to continue, but he knew he wanted to keep talking.
    “How old was your brother?”
    “He was older than you, but still. My little brother, you know.”
    He looked down at his shoes, which were soaking wet.
    “My little brother,” he repeated quietly.
    Lennart looked at the guy for a short moment before nodding.
    “I only have one cup.”
    “That’s okay.”
    He took the steaming mug from him. There was sugar in it but that didn’t matter. He drank some and then looked at the guy again.
    “I was just looking in on my brother’s wife,” he said. “They have a kid about fourteen.”
    “Was he sick, then?”
    “No, murdered.”
    The young man opened his eyes wide.
    “Out in Libro, if you know where that is. Yeah, of course you do. That’s where the county dumps its snow.”
    “That was your brother?”
    Lennart drank the last of the coffee and handed back the mug.
    “Tastes fucking good to drink something hot.”
    But he shivered as if the cold had penetrated his core. The young man screwed the cap back on and shoved the Thermos into a bag behind his seat. The gesture reminded Lennart of something