Open Grave

Twenty-eight

He had dreamed about money. But mainly about Africa. And then not only about Miss Elly but so much more, the whole continent had streamed into his body like a pleasurable potpourri of beautiful images. Laughter and howls were heard in a landscape bathed in sun, where then twilight came creeping with coolness and surprisingly quickly everything was in shadow and darkness.

It was a good dream with many fine details, and a few that were funny. If he had been staying at the camp Christian and John would have listened to his account with great delight. They would have nodded energetically and persuaded Karsten to expand on the story. John would have giggled at his inimitable way when it came to Miss Elly and love. He loved to hear Karsten’s words about his “best sister,” as John had always called her.

Karsten got up to make breakfast and decide how he should organize the day, but the thoughts of Africa would not leave him in peace. Were John and Christian still at the camp or had other guides and trackers come, younger and faster? He did not want to believe that. No one could beat John where felines were concerned, and Christian knew everything about rhinoceroses.

He had coffee in a melancholy emotional state of joy and loss. Should he go back? Could he go back? The questions would come up now and then but so far he had rejected all thoughts of leaving Sweden. Now suddenly the idea of selling the little he owned, packing up and buying a one-way ticket, seemed fully feasible.

He did not want to live in Windhoek, but a little house in Shiwo he could probably find. Miss Elly’s relatives were there. They would welcome him with song and swallow him whole.

The money he set aside would perhaps be enough for the trip, a patch of ground and a house, but not much more. Miss Elly’s family would not hesitate a moment to support him, in reality they would demand to do so, but he did not want to live off of others, above all not those who were worse off than himself.

Karsten knew where this was heading. The image of the shoe box with money was burning on his retinas, in the dream the bundles had been his. He had been sitting on the veranda with the box at his feet conversing with his good friend Mr. Green, a thirty-centimeter-long lizard with a brown head and a shimmering green thorax that changed to turquoise toward the tail. His wife was an identical color, just as curious as her mate but careful and guarded in everything she undertook.

Mr. Green had let his tongue play-Karsten assumed that the lizard also sensed the smell of money-and approached slowly and sniffed at the shoe box. It had quite unexpectedly raised itself on its hind legs and leaned over the edge of the box and inspected the contents. And then something really unexpected happened. Mr. Green had seemed to sneer with his broad lizard mouth and triumphantly did a thumbs-up to his lizard wife as if to say: Here there are resources.

Karsten was awakened by his own laughter. Mr. Green had a talent for always putting him in a good mood. At times of melancholy and loneliness the lizard had been a friend to rely on.

Should he too do the thumbs-up? Should he take Mr. Green’s contented expression as a sign?

He finished breakfast in a quandary and with a growing sense of irritation. It was just past six o’clock in the morning so he did not need to feel stressed but hurried away anyway. He needed to leave the apartment, put his body to work, it was the only way to relieve the discomfort.

What remained at Lundquist’s was to cut down the birch tree on the front side and then clean up after himself. The birch was not particularly large but was in an awkward location. If he were to cut down the tree in one piece there would not be much room to spare, and there was a risk that it would fall over the fence toward the street, so he had decided to lop off the top first. For that maneuver he needed the ladder and was therefore forced to take the car and trailer.

He drove to the minimal storeroom in Boländerna where he stored his tools. He rented the storeroom from a sheet-metal shop. While he rooted among his things-there was no point in taking off too early-he heard the sheet-metal workers arrive. It was Hedlund and Oskarsson, as usual joking loudly with each other. Karsten became a little envious. The loneliness felt even stronger. He stopped a moment, stood quietly in the darkness of the shed and thought about Africa.

When the voices had died away he left the storeroom, unhitched the ladder from the hooks on the wall, and strapped it onto the trailer. He had already packed saw, oil, and fuel. It was time to finish the work in Kåbo.

The birch was soon dispatched, taken down and sawn into manageable pieces that he stacked in an old bicycle storage area that the homeowner used as a woodshed. Lundquist had explained that he would gladly chop the wood himself; he needed a little exercise, he said. Karsten could do nothing but agree in silence. Lundquist was alarmingly fat.

Everything had gone as planned and when he got in the car the sun was peeking out. He smiled quietly to himself and turned the ignition key.

After driving away he regretted that he had not thrown one more stone onto Ohler’s roof and slowed down, but realized immediately the silliness in returning to carry out such a solely self-indulgent action.

On the other hand, there was one thing he had neglected and that was saying good-bye to Johansson. He turned around the block and parked outside the associate professor’s house.

He found him by the compost sitting in a wheelbarrow.

“I got a little tired. I’m a little out of sorts actually.”

Karsten saw how embarrassed Gregor Johansson was. He must have felt caught just sitting and idling.

“No, don’t get up, it’s all right. Well, is this the last grass-cutting for the year?”

Johansson nodded. Karsten crouched down and leaned his back against the compost.

“So you’re done now?” said Johansson.

“Yes, the last is done. The birch is down. It feels good.”

“And what is waiting now?”

Africa, thought Karsten. He had a desire to recount his dream, but the box of five-hundred-kronor bills would be hard to explain. And Mr. Green perhaps would stand out as slightly too fantastic a lizard for anyone who had never met him.

“I’m going to cut down a couple of maple trees in Årsta, then I’ll have to see. Once again thanks for the witch alder.”

“It was nothing. Maybe you can come by in the spring. Or sooner,” Johansson hastened to add.

“I’d like to do that. I still have to look after Lundquist’s garden next year.”

At the same moment it occurred to him that he was lying to the associate professor. He would never set foot at Lundquist’s again. It didn’t feel right. He wanted to say goodbye to the associate professor in a better way.

“Maybe I can come by the day after tomorrow? I have a couple of gardening books that might interest you. Duplicates.”

He wanted to give the associate professor something. He wanted to explain himself, tell him something about Africa. Not just disappear from this belated friend.

“Gladly,” the associate professor answered. “Come for midmorning coffee.”

They separated at the gate. What Karsten could not suspect was that they would never meet again.