The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Nineteen

Konrad Rosenberg was one of five sons of the infamous Karl-Åke Rosenberg, the drilling and blasting expert, of whom more or less believable stories still circulated on construction sites. Karl-Åke had set off his last load of explosives in Forsmark in 1979 and died shortly thereafter, more or less on the spot, from a heart attack, so shot through with dust and drill residue that he was indistinguishable from the rock. It was said that the body had to be cleaned with a high-pressure hose.

With every son that Elisa Rosenberg bore, it was as if there was not quite enough material. The firstborn, Bertil, was a giant like his father, but thereafter the sons were more and more feeble. Konrad was the youngest, one hundred and fifty-seven centimeters tall, equipped with a sunken chest and shoulders that stuck out like hangers. In elementary school the other kids played the harp on his ribs and his shoe size was only thirty-eight.

What he lacked in physique and ability, he made up for in a never-wavering optimism and a self-confidence that unfortunately often led him astray.

At the age of seventeen he embarked on a drug addiction, and one year later he was charged by the Uppsala courts with burglary and the assault of a civil servant. He was found guilty of the burglary but the second accusation was dismissed by the court. It was regarded as unlikely that Konrad had the capacity to offer any significant resistance.

That was the first in a long series of sentences. Most of them concerned drugs and crimes related to his drug habit, primarily fraud. He was a scoundrel, well known to the police and people in the blocks around the central station.

During his last prison term Konrad had participated in an ambitious program to kick his drug habit, and when he was released he had against all expectations kicked his drug dependence and was provided with a small apartment in Tunabackar, on the same street where he had grown up.

Konrad Rosenberg was forty-six years old when he was granted early retirement. He used to sit on Torbjörn Square, down a beer or two, and converse with other lushes or other retirees who were happy to have someone to talk to. Many of them had been acquainted with Konrad’s father and loved to tell the usual stories about legendary explosions.

Sometimes he used the shuttle service to go downtown, shoplift in a couple of stores, selling the goods quickly below market value and returning home with a green bag of alcohol.

Life was simple for Konrad. He was still optimistically cheerful and was generally regarded as a little slow but harmless, since he had never committed any violent crimes.

One day, things looked up for Konrad Rosenberg. He appeared, in new clothes, at a bank branch on Torbjörn Square, where he opened an account and deposited fifty-six thousand kronor. The clerk, who recognized him from the park benches, could not conceal his surprise.

“It is an inheritance,” Konrad explained somberly.

“My condolences,” the clerk said.

“It is all right,” Konrad said. “It’s just a distant aunt who popped off.”

After that, smaller amounts flowed into the account, a couple of thousand from time to time, on a few occasions a five-digit amount. A couple of years after the initial deposit, the sum had grown fivefold.

The bank clerk reminded Konrad of the possibility of a more favorable retirement savings account option that, once he had received an explanatory overview, Konrad politely declined.

“The devil only knows how long one has to live. One could kick the bucket at any moment.”

One day he parked a Mercedes on the street, circled the car a few times, opened and locked the doors with a remote control system, unlocked the door, sat down in the car, only to step out again immediately, lock it, walk some distance away and turn around and regard this miracle, before he finally ducked in through the front doors of the building.

Konrad Rosenberg, as “Sture with the hat” had put it to Berglund, was in the money.

But fortune is a curse. From his relatively problem-free existence on the square, Konrad had now been plunged into a whirlwind of new acquaintances who, like the male butterfly that can detect a female at one kilometer’s distance, appeared to be drawn to the smell of money that emanated from him.

At first he was flattered, liked to buy rounds for his new friends and was seen more often in public. Then suddenly everything ground to a halt. Konrad Rosenberg became sullen and unwilling to play along. No more small loans, no restaurant meals, visitors were turned away at the door.

When spring came, he was again on the park bench in the square. The bank account, which had almost been emptied, was again being filled at a steady and secure rate.

It was the summerhouse that was the source of Konrad Rosenberg’s unexpected advancement.

In the sixties, the explosions expert Rosenberg had bought a piece of land from a local farmer about ten kilometers east of the town. On the stony property, which he spent the first summer blowing to bits, he built a large cottage of sixty square meters. In addition to a main room, where he and Elisa slept, it included a kitchen and two sleeping alcoves where the sons made do as best they could.

After Karl-Åke died, it only took a few weeks for Elisa to pass away. Konrad was in jail and could not really look out for his interests, but was happy with the money he received. The rest of the brothers sold the apartment in the city, as well as all the furnishings, and divided the money among themselves. Bertil made off with the summerhouse, but after an attack of guilty conscience, offered it for his little brother Konrad’s use.

Konrad had lived there during difficult times in his life, but had never really felt at home there. It was too far from the city, but it breathed of childhood. Not that the latter had been unhappy in any way and perhaps this was what created the discomfort. The house reminded Konrad dimly of the fact that there were alternatives to the life he had chosen to live.

The neighbors were hardworking, decent types, and Konrad felt their scorn. He had renovated the house, had it repainted, replaced the woodwork, and had a new tin roof put on, but none of this helped. The neighbors continued to remain distant. What they did not know was that the summerhouse was the foundation of his renaissance. It was remote enough that it functioned as a repackaging center and did not figure on the police radar of hot spots. Konrad himself played no part in the planning of this but was nonetheless smart enough to realize the relative value of this modest house. He thought it was a lucky break that he had been recruited, but the fact was that it was the summerhouse that was of interest. Konrad was only part of the bargain.

He carted the tube of cooking gas, the container of water, and the suitcase up to the house, unlocked the door, and was greeted by its characteristic smell: a mixture of gas, mold, and childhood. He grinned, without being aware that he was doing so.

After installing the tube and putting the old one on the veranda, Konrad boiled water and made a cup of instant coffee, which he drank in measured sips while he wondered when the next delivery would take place. It irritated him that he was kept in the dark. He felt more important than this and did not want to be regarded simply as a mere delivery boy. Next time he was going to speak his mind.

“What the hell am I sitting here for?” he burst out, in an attack of clear-headedness.

He pushed the cup away so that the coffee spilled out and formed a triangle-shaped stain on the wax tablecloth. He pulled his finger through the liquid and suddenly felt a strong urge to sleep with a woman. Just to sleep. Without fuss, to be able to sleep with a warm woman by his side.

“Well, what do you know, Dad,” he said out loud, and the resolve in his voice surprised him.

He looked around the cottage, allowing his gaze to wander from the old woodstove over the hastily made bed, to the dresser where a few decorative items bore witness to the Rosenberg family’s former life.

He shook his head as if to get rid of his discomfort, stood up, unsure of why he felt so uncomfortable.

The fortune he now possessed normally gave him a rush. He had never been so successful, and especially with such minimal effort. He felt more respectable and thought he was treated with more respect than before, not only at the bank but everywhere. He almost felt as if he had a real job.

But now he packed the goods into small tidy packets with a feeling of sadness.

When the bag was filled he left the house, carefully locking it, and drove back into town. A young boy was trying to hitch a ride in Bärby.

“Get your own car,” Konrad muttered, and stepped on the gas.