Black Lies, Red Blood

Forty-six

Johnny Andersson poured another glass, the last one. He was crying. Alcohol always made him teary eyed, but some of it was the real thing. Maybe it was the old knick-knacks, dusty but otherwise untouched by the passage of time, that made him boozily sentimental. Hadn’t the vase with the inscription Souvenir from Leksand been there for ages? Johnny seemed to recall that sometime in the fifties his parents cycled around Lake Siljan. How did they come up with the idea of cycling all that way? And why drag a vase home with them? But that’s how it was then, he thought with a mixture of envy and contempt.

The whole cottage was like a nostalgia museum, and he willingly let himself be carried back to his childhood. He sobbed over vanished smells, memories, and possibilities.

This is what I have, he thought, and I’m not responsible for any of it. He turned, stroked his hand tenderly across the flowery wallpaper, and then tipped over in bed.

“If only I could sleep,” he mumbled, but knew he was too sober to fall asleep. The alcohol was really gone now, and along with it the possibility of fooling his body.

For three days he had stayed at the allotment garden cottage. Sleeping over was not allowed, but he did not think anyone even noticed he had been there. He stayed inside and did not make himself conspicuous, did not even turn on the radio. He had been given notice; the annual fee to the association had not been paid for several years. The only reason the association had not taken action was that his parents were among the original gardeners; his father had been chairman for many years. He knew that as soon as his mother was gone, he would be thrown out.

The old Nordlander woman, who had the cabin right across the narrow street, had been digging in her plot for a couple of days, and then biked home in the evening. But if she had seen him she wouldn’t dare say a word. She was afraid of him, always had been.

He was living on rye bread, sausage, and powdered mashed potatoes. But now supplies were running low and what was worse, all the beer was consumed and the bottle of aquavit he brought with him was empty.

There was a time when there was always a bottle of wine or a few beers in reserve in the cottage, a time when he could sit under the apple tree and look out over his mother’s flower beds, often with a beer in his hand. Sometimes he had to go out and give her a hand, prune a branch or dig up a flower bed. No major exertions, but the old lady had always been grateful, especially for the company.

The cabin at the allotment garden had been a retreat. He never brought any of his drinking buddies there, did not even talk about the cabin. It was his and his mother’s territory where they could maintain the illusion of the industrious allotment gardeners. He had to fill in for his father, who died in the early eighties. She must have thought that a few beers for his assistance and company was a low price, because the pantry under the hatch in the kitchen floor was always filled.

Now he had to leave. He stared out the window; the poorly tended beds made him sad. During the spring he tried to weed out the worst of it, but it was as if a little resistance only stimulated the couch grass and thistles, because now the perennials were barely visible. Only the angry red poppy was able to show off.

He didn’t know what time it was, his wristwatch had stopped and the phone was turned off, but he guessed it was fairly early.

He looked around the cabin. It struck him that this might be the last time he would be there. Otherwise I could live here, he thought, I don’t need anything bigger.

He shut the door with a slam, did not bother to lock it, stood quietly on the stoop, and drew the fresh morning air into his lungs.

“I could live here,” he repeated out loud.

He felt no regret, only a great fatigue. They could have done it together, but Bosse had always been a stubborn bastard.

He heard the sound of the bicycle before he saw Nordlander come pedaling, but did not bother to hide.

She opened the gate to her patch, pushed in the bicycle, and then turned around, as if she unconsciously registered his presence.

To his surprise she smiled. She parked the bicycle, came back, and stood by the gate.

“Up early,” she observed, and Johnny could only nod.

“Have you had coffee?”

He shook his head.

“I’m putting some on. Why don’t you come over in ten minutes. I can make a few sandwiches too.”

Has she had a stroke? Sure, he’d had coffee many times at the Nordlanders, but always with his mother, and the last time was at least five years ago.

He could not bring himself to answer, but of course coffee and a sandwich would be nice.

“So you’ll come by later?”

He nodded. The neighbor lady gave him another smile, turned on her heels, and disappeared into her house. He sat down on the bench under the apple tree. Coffee and a sandwich; he remembered her egg-and-anchovy sandwiches, but that was probably too much to hope for.

He glimpsed Anna Nordlander behind the curtains, rummaging around in the kitchen. She was a retired teacher and it showed, she almost always had that gentle, forgiving expression on her face, which he associated with his own time at the Tunaberg school. The teachers had given up before he even tried.

Johnny leaned against the apple tree, enjoying the warmth. After the frosty nights earlier in the month it had been getting steadily warmer every day. It sucks that I can’t live here, he thought, then I could sit here every morning, feel the rough bark against my back and the sun against my face, enjoy life.

Having access to a cabin but at the same time not having an apartment was frustrating. He got the idea of talking with the Nordlander bitch, she was the only one in the vicinity who would have an opinion on whether he could stay in the cabin over the summer. Maybe she could be convinced. He could even help her with a few chores.

Johnny got up from the bench, certain that at least ten minutes must have passed. He left the lot, crossed the road, and went up on Nordlanders’ stoop. Through the thin door he heard her voice. Was she talking to herself? He carefully opened the door.

“You have to hurry,” Johnny heard her say, and he realized that Nordlander was talking on the phone.

“Ralf, do you hear what I’m saying? He might get away,” she said in her teacher’s voice.

Suddenly he understood. She was talking with her son, that fucking busybody policeman. Ralf must have tattled to her that the police wanted to get hold of Johnny.

He and Ralf, who had played together in the garden area, were in the same class the first six years of school. Now he would march out and become a hero.

The old lady was calling the cops on him! The invitation for a cup of coffee was only a way to keep him in the area.

Johnny Andersson was consumed by fury. This happened to him more and more often.

He opened the door wide and threw himself into the cabin.

“You damn witch! ‘Have you had coffee?’ You lying sack of shit!”

Anna Nordlander picked up a knife from the counter and held it in front of her with both hands. On the counter was a loaf of bread.

He stared at the shaky hands that held the serrated knife.

“I see, you’re going to cut me?”

Johnny Andersson took hold of a chair and raised it. For a moment in his mind he saw his mother and Nordlander as they were sitting in the kitchen, shelling peas, a childhood memory. Thirty-five years ago maybe. Then he and Ralf had stormed into the kitchen, out of breath and thirsty and Nordlander poured rhubarb juice from a pitcher.

He lowered the chair.

“Leave my house!”

He raised the chair again and swung it toward the woman. A chair leg hit the left side of her head and Anna Nordlander was thrown toward the window, pulling down a couple of flowerpots with her arm as she vainly tried to hold herself upright and then collapsed on the floor.

Johnny Andersson knew now that flight was everything. From Nordlander’s kitchen, from all the memories, from the Ralf of childhood, from the garden cabin-his only property and fixed point.

He grabbed the loaf and took a bite. The woman at his feet whimpered. Hatred welled up inside him, hatred for which he had no target. He leaned down and picked up the knife from the floor.

“You wanted to stick this in me,” he said.

Anna Nordlander slid up in a half-sitting position. Her eyes were cloudy and blood was dripping from her temple. She shook her head. She opened her mouth but was not able to say anything. Johnny wanted to hear her voice, listen to her lies and excuses, simply to have a reason to release his rage. He wanted to hear her say her obvious lies in her teacher voice. He wanted her to crawl in front of him, beg him, she who had always given the orders. Then he could scream at her, spit and kick her, but he could not attack a mute elderly woman lying at his feet with a foggy gaze and shaking hands.

He threw the bread at her and left the cabin with the knife in his hand.