Black Lies, Red Blood

Forty-nine

Surprisingly enough the hole in the fence was still there, perhaps thanks to the fact that it was hidden by some tangled bushes. That was the opening he and Ralf used when they wanted to go down to the Fyris River, forbidden excursions. On hot days they undressed and splashed around in the water, swam upstream and then let themselves be brought back by the current.

Johnny Andersson stood by the river’s edge. It must have been thirty years since he’d last been there, but everything seemed so familiar and near. For a minute or two he was carried back to the games and memories of childhood. The episode that usually showed up when he thought about playing at the allotment gardens was the memory of his father, who only came down to the cabin if there was digging or carpentry work to be done, and who once joined him in the forbidden crawl through the fence. Johnny did not remember what they did, only the memory of his father wriggling through and then standing on the river bank, peering, as if he was thinking about fleeing from everything.

An angry dog’s barking was heard from the other side of the river. Johnny looked around. He had no plan, but he realized that soon Ralf and his cohort would be swarming around the allotment area. He took a few steps in the thick vegetation, turned on his heels, and started walking south, toward the city.

After some ten meters he came upon a boat, a leaky old rowboat, partially hidden in the dense meadowsweet. It was secured with a frayed piece of rope to the trunk of an alder. No lock, only a knot. He untied the knot and pulled the rowboat into the water. It floated, but for how long? There were no oars, but he tossed in a crooked branch that was on the bank and then carefully stepped into the wobbly vessel, pushed off with the branch, was caught by the weak current and carried away.

When he determined that the boat would not immediately capsize or sink, he felt a sense of calm. This was what Ralf and he had dreamed of, being able to take off like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Admittedly the Fyris River was a very pale copy of the Mississippi, but that was the waterway he had.

Johnny Andersson sat very still on the bench and watched the shore glide past, as if he were a well-adjusted, curious participant on a sightseeing cruise, where everything was arranged and predetermined.

Soon he passed the badminton hall. At the camping site a teenage couple was sitting on a bench. Johnny waved, the couple waved back. At a level with Fyrishov he heard sirens from a patrol car, but he had difficulty making the connection to himself. It was as if the recent events, even the showdown with the old Nordlander woman, had faded away and were replaced by a strange equanimity. Slowly the rowboat carried him closer to the city center.

After the Fyrisvall bridge, the half-finished buildings rose on the right and to the left was the old retirement home where his grandfather had died. A few construction workers had made their way down to the river. Johnny guessed they were on a break. One of them shouted something that Johnny did not catch, but he answered anyway with a wave and a smile.

The vegetation was thick, big trees lowered their crowns toward the water. There was a scent of sediment and summer. Johnny took a deep breath and laid down in the boat. He watched the light clouds sail along, and it was as if everything faded away, now there was only him and the light veils against the blue sky. After a while he got dizzy from staring at the sky and sat up in the boat.

Without thinking of anything in particular, Johnny Andersson was traveling at a moderate pace through his city. The Fyris River passed like a dividing line through Uppsala. In the past the inhabitants were sorted according to which side of the river they lived on. As an illustration of the ancient division, he passed the old shoe factory on the east side, his grandfather’s workplace once upon a time, and to the west the Fyris school, where in his youth he committed a totally meaningless burglary and to top it off was arrested.

It was as if he was floating along in no man’s land, and that feeling made him forget his sorry situation. He caught himself sitting in the rowboat, grinning, suddenly and unexpectedly reconciled with the events of the past few weeks.

It was not until he glided under the bridge by Skolgatan that he remembered the milldam at the Uppland Museum. At the annual shooting of the rapids at the end of April, most of the boats would capsize there, either at the crown of the ramp or as they tumbled along. The homemade boats broke apart and the students ended up in the water. Johnny had never seen the spectacle, but read about it in the newspaper.

Then there were divers ready to fish out the ones who suffered shipwreck, but he suspected that no one would jump in to rescue him today.

He first tried to paddle with the crooked branch, then use it as a steering oar, but with equally meager results. The current placed him in the middle of the river and was steadily carrying him toward the falls.

Now he also had an audience. At the Åkanten Restaurant people were flocking by the iron railing and shouting encouraging words. On the other side a gang of youths was yelling, and outside the museum Japanese tourists were filming as the rowboat approached the edge, tipped over, and disappeared from their field of vision. Those who were standing on the Cathedral Bridge had an even better view, and Johnny happened to see a woman pointing and screaming in terror. Johnny Andersson had become an attraction.

He crouched, preparing for the worst. The rowboat turned over, he was thrown out of the boat and dragged down into the murky water under the Cathedral Bridge.

He had not been swimming since he was a teenager, but instinctively he started vigorously moving his arms and legs, to avoid being thrown against the side stones. He gasped for breath, getting a mouthful of cold water, reached the surface for a moment, flickeringly saw a man up on the bridge. His mouth was wide open. Maybe he was screaming. He reached out his arms as if he wanted to take hold of Johnny, who was however five meters below, inexorably being flushed down toward the New Bridge.

He was sure he would die. The possibility of getting a hold and hanging on to the perpendicular walls was nonexistent, and it was several meters up to the edge. There had been a chance upstream of the milldam where he could have crawled up on land, but now it was too late. He kept taking in mouthfuls of cold water. He was caught and sentenced to drown.

At the New Bridge someone threw down a life buoy but it missed him by several meters and Johnny watched it float away. He was pulled by the current toward the west side, scraping against the rough stones. I don’t care anymore, he thought, but at that moment he glimpsed a figure and felt a hand take hold of his arm.

On all fours he threw up, emptied himself completely. He looked around. He had completely forgotten the stairs down from West Ågatan. He had sat there many times before, drinking beer. Now it was his salvation.

“How are you feeling?”

A young man was leaning over him.

“Fine,” said Johnny, getting up.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Johnny shook his head and went up the stairs on shaky legs. Several curiosity seekers had gathered. The sound of sirens was coming closer and closer. Someone must have called an ambulance, maybe the police too.

He stepped out into the street, stopped a car, opened the door on the driver’s side. A young woman was sitting at the wheel.

“Beat it,” said Johnny. “And keep your mouth shut.”