The princess of Burundi

Twenty

Mossa lingered outside the restaurant. He took out a cigarette, lit it up, and inhaled, nodding at an acquaintance on his way in. Lennart thought he had aged. The hair was not as dark, nor was his posture as confident. But he still had style. Composed, Lennart thought.

As always, Mossa was alone, probably the reason why he had managed as well as he had. He was alone in accepting his defeats, but also his winnings.

He started to walk, and Lennart followed, but not too closely. He imagined that Mossa would begin to sense his presence, as if with built-in radar. Lennart preferred to bide his time. It wouldn’t be a good idea to make contact with him on the street. You never knew who was watching. Not that it mattered to Lennart, but Mossa could be sensitive about it.

He followed him down Sysslomansgatan, through the thick snow, and with every step Lennart was reminded of his brother’s death at the snow dump and his resolve to avenge John grew stronger.

Mossa’s footsteps were small, as was his build. He moved quickly and easily, gliding forth, smoking, his head somewhat bent. Lennart watched him pass St. Olofsgatan and decided to make his move in the narrow, dimly lit alley below the cathedral. He lengthened his stride, the snow muffling his progress.

Suddenly Mossa turned. Lennart was up close now, perhaps only a few meters away.

“What do you want?”

“Hey, Mossa. How’s it going?”

“What do you want?” he repeated and let his cigarette fall to the ground.

“I need some help,” Lennart said, and immediately regretted it. Mossa helped no one except his mother and his handicapped brother. He looked back at Lennart without any expression.

“Your brother was clumsy. That is that,” Mossa said.

Lennart felt a mixture of apprehensive joy and fear. Mossa had recognized him and was going to talk.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. He was clumsy, careless.”

“Do you know something?”

Mossa lit another cigarette and Lennart moved closer. The Iranian looked up and pushed one hand into his pocket.

“No.”

“You haven’t heard anything?”

“Your brother was a good fellow, not like so many of the others. He reminded me of a childhood friend I had in Shiraz.”

The Iranian paused, smoked.

“I only know he was up to something. Something big, at least for him, if you know what I mean. I heard something back in the fall, something about a job. John suddenly had a little money, more than he usually put in. He was in a game and wanted to increase the stakes, to try to win more.”

Lennart stamped his feet anxiously as he listened. His shoes were letting in moisture. Mossa’s talk was making him think.

“And he won.”

“How much?”

Mossa smiled. He always did when it came to poker winnings.

“More than you’ve ever had your hands on. Almost two hundred thou’.”

“He won two hundred thousand kronor? What did he say?”

“Not much. He took his money and went home. It was half past four in the morning, I think.”

“Where was this?”

“I lost thirty-five thousand myself,” Mossa said.

Lennart felt betrayed. John had won a fortune and not said a word about it. It was as if Mossa could read his thoughts.

“As he left he said something about how things were finally coming together for him, that he was close to realizing a dream. And that you would be involved.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I assume he only has one brother. He said that his brother would come along.”

“Come along?”

“I thought you knew what he was planning.”

Lennart shook his head in bewilderment. He was to come along? But what was it? Where? Lennart understood nothing. He hadn’t heard so much as the ghost of a hint.

“My friend from Shiraz also died too early. He was burned to death. Your brother died in the snow.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Mossa gave Lennart a somewhat gentler look.

“I think John liked you,” he said and took out the cigarettes again.

“Who else knew about the money?”

“Ask his friend-Micke.”

“Did he know?”

“I don’t know, but John mentioned his name.”

An older couple walked by.

“I have to go now,” Mossa said, turned, passed by the couple, and walked around the corner toward Cathedral bridge.

Lennart remained rooted to his spot, overwhelmed by the information. What was he supposed to think? Had Mossa been deliberately misleading him? But why would he do something like that? Lennart had the feeling that the Iranian had actually been waiting for him, that he had wanted to tell him about John and the poker winnings.

What did Micke know? The damned weasel. He had been so sincere and sobbed about the friendship and not said a word about the money.

Lennart stamped his feet to rid them of the snow and cold. He decided to go to Micke immediately and get him up against the wall. It hit him that he had forgotten to ask Mossa who the other players had been. Maybe one of them had wanted to get back at John for his loss. Mossa had lost thirty-five thousand, but someone else must have lost substantially more.

Mossa would probably never reveal their names. It was against the unwritten rules of the game. There were winners and losers, but no one could run off at the mouth about it afterward. On the other hand, losses were hard for people to get off their minds, there was always a desire for revenge, and sometimes this took precedence over the honor code.

John was not the kind to flaunt a win or taunt his opponents. He never took on superior airs, but Lennart knew how money could affect people. Maybe someone had been driven to revenge.

Micke had just finished watching a German crime film on TV when the front door opened. He jumped off of the couch and for a split second he was convinced that John had returned. He was gripped by terror. Instinctively he crouched behind an armchair and listened to the intruder close the door behind him.

“Where the hell are you?”

It was Lennart, sounding like he did when he had had a few drinks, an accusing voice full of anger and impatience. Micke got up out of his hiding place as Lennart walked into the room.

“What the hell are you hiding for?”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to ring the doorbell? And how did you get past the door downstairs?” Micke’s terror had turned to rage.

“You can yell and scream all you want,” Lennart said, stopping in the middle of the room. “What I want to know is why you’ve been lying to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“About John. He won a bucketful of cash and you didn’t say shit.”

“I thought you knew.”

“The hell you did. You were lying.”

Micke felt very tired suddenly. He sat back down on the sofa and reached for his glass of wine. It was empty.

“Don’t sit there and try to defend yourself,” Lennart shouted out of nowhere.

“What’s got into you? I knew he won big in some poker game, but that’s all. He didn’t tell me who the other players were.”

“Did he tell you how much?”

Micke shook his head.

“You know how he was.”

“Don’t you talk shit about my brother!”

Lennart took a step closer to the sofa.

“Calm down for God’s sake!”

“Don’t you tell me what to do, you fucking bastard,” said Lennart and grabbed him by his shirt and forced him up off of the sofa. How strong he is, Micke had time to think before Lennart banged his head into Micke’s nose. The room spun around and his body collapsed onto the coffee table.

When he came to, Lennart was gone. Micke crawled up onto all fours. Blood was pouring from his nose. He felt his face with one hand. What a fuck-up he is, he thought and fury coursed through him. To be disturbed in your own home, he thought indignantly. And now the rug would be stained with blood.

I’m going to the police for this one, he thought, but immediately thought better of it. It wouldn’t help, more likely the opposite. Lennart would never forget or forgive something like that. He would follow him for years. Maybe not attack him physically but keep talking about it. Micke had never been friendly with Lennart, but he had always been there, as brother to John. The sporadic contact would stop now. Just as well. He didn’t want any other visits from Lennart.

Best to lie low and hope the bastard never comes back, he thought while he dragged himself to his feet and walked out to the bathroom.

Lennart was sitting in there crying quietly. His face was swollen and red.

“It’s okay,” Micke said. “Go on, get going. Have a beer and forget all this.”

“I miss him,” Lennart said. “My little brother.”

Micke put a hand on his shoulder.

“Sure you do. John was better than all the rest of us put together.”