Open Grave

Thirty

Friday was going to be rainy. It was pouring down already early in the morning. Karsten Haller cancelled all plans for tree pruning. The maples in Årsta would still be there after the weekend. And if they weren’t it didn’t matter to him.

Instead he took the bus down to the city to visit a travel agency on Drottninggatan. There he had been well treated before, and he felt that a friendly reception was even more important this time. Perhaps he would never need the services of a travel agency again. He was on the point of leaving the country and now every human contact and every transaction had significance. These were the memories he would carry with him and he did not want to have bitter thoughts now at the end.

He stepped into the agency’s office with a smile and half an hour later he stepped out with a smile.

He walked along the street with the quiet exhilaration of a person who has just made a life-altering decision-a mixture of reverence, euphoria, and an absolute conviction of having chosen the right path. But despite the light-heartedness, every step, every thought, was of the greatest importance. Even the rain drumming against his umbrella seemed to have a message. For Karsten Haller rain was something good, it made the semidesert bloom and fish that had been lying still, apparently dead, in the mud of the rivers waken to life. But even the absence of rain could be good. Then the animals flocked by the few waterholes. The clouds of dust on the horizon heralded migrating hordes of grass-eaters.

Now he was not stirring up much dust on Fyristorg. It was still raining intensely. He had decided to exchange the bundle of five-hundred-kronor bills from Ohler’s safe. It went more smoothly than he thought.

“Have a nice trip,” the young woman behind the security glass chirped, as she pushed over the yellow packet of money.

He had said something about visiting his relatives in the United States, with a vague sense that he had to justify his transaction. LUDMILLA, as it said on the woman’s name tag, did not think there was anything strange about his wanting to exchange twenty-five thousand kronor to American dollars.

Crime is encouraged, he thought, smiling back, left the premises and headed for the next exchange office, which was in a shopping arcade.

There it went just as smoothly. He quickly stuffed the money in the inside pocket of his jacket and set a course for the exit. When he caught sight of his own mirror image outside a store he did a double take; he looked like he had shoplifted something. He slowed down and looked around. Did someone perhaps think that he was behaving strangely? But no one seemed to take any notice. A teenager bumped into him, but did not apologize, on the contrary he glared at Karsten as if to say “Get out of the way, old man.”

He went into the pharmacy in the next arcade. He was sweating but did not want to unbutton his jacket. Now he realized that the theft was irrevocable.

He picked up aspirin and sunscreen. In the line to the register he suddenly became fretful. He wanted to shove the other customers to the side, throw a couple of hundreds at the clerk, and rush away.

Once out on the street he made the decision that he’d been tossing around ever since the last visit to Ohler: He would return and steal the rest of the bundles in the safe. Why should the rapist have so much, and in a couple of months a few million more in prize money?

He hailed a taxi that was passing. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible, get away from the people, the clamor in the stores, and the noise on the streets.

The taxi driver was black and Karsten took that as a good sign. During the ride he leaned back, closed his eyes, and the images from Namibia came to him. He smiled. Everything was falling into place. The old man would be punished. He would let himself be swallowed up by the interior of Africa. He opened his eyes. The rain was lashing against the windows of the taxi. It’s spring in Etosha now, he thought.