The Princess of Burundi

Twenty-two

Vincent woke around half past four. Vivan had made up a bed in her sewing room and for a while he lay there looking at the sewing machine. The rows of different colored thread arranged on some shelves, the cutting table she had pushed against one wall, covered in black cloth.

The headache, which had come and gone all night, had finally lifted, but he still felt its weight. His sister-in-law had washed and dressed the wound on his forehead.

“You are the only one who’s willing to help me,” he told her, and Vivan softened at these words and the sight of him.

He went out into the hall. The newspaper had been partly pushed through the mail slot and he gently pulled it out. He found it on page 3. Vincent Hahn was described as “unpredictable” and “mentally disturbed.” The forty-two-year-old woman in Sävja had not been physically hurt but was considerably shaken. The police were urging members of the public with information on the assailant to come forward.

He shoved the paper to the bottom of the kitchen trash. His sister-in-law’s bedroom was right next to the kitchen and he had to move with extreme care. He knew from before that she could be grumpy in the morning and assumed that this was still the case, though they had not spent the night under the same roof for over twenty years.

He put on water for tea and tried to order his thoughts. The police would most likely have placed his apartment under surveillance. He could stay with Vivan for one, perhaps two nights at most. Then she would start to grumble. He had to make a plan. Bernt, a man he talked to at the bingo hall, could potentially help him out. But the first thing he had to do was get money.

If Gunilla Karlsson thought she had gotten away, she was sorely mistaken. You could maybe trick Vincent Hahn once, but not two times. She would get a dose of her own medicine, that fucking bitch. The more he reflected on the events of the preceding night, the more determined he was to get revenge. She would be punished ten times over.

At six-thirty Vivan came stumbling into the kitchen. It was as if she had forgotten that he was there, because for a few seconds she stared at him uncomprehendingly. Vincent said nothing, just stared back.

“How is it?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He heard her walk out to the bathroom, pee, and then turn on the shower.

“How long are you staying?” she asked when she came out again, wrapped in a towel.

Vincent was still sitting at the kitchen table. His headache had returned. His sister-in-law was making it easy for him by bringing up the subject herself.

“One or two nights,” he said. “I’d rather not be by myself. Only if it’s all right with you, of course.”

She was clearly surprised at his meekness. She had not heard him be so gentle before.

“That sounds fine,” she said, relieved.

She left the kitchen and Vincent relaxed for the first time since yesterday. He heard her pulling and shutting dresser drawers and opening the doors to the closet. He wondered why she didn’t have a new man in her life.

“Have you taken the newspaper?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t think you had one.”

“You can’t rely on anything anymore,” she said with unexpected sharpness.

“I think I’ll go back to bed for a while,” he said. “I woke up so early and this headache won’t go away.”

Vincent felt almost peaceful. It was as if he and Vivan were an old couple, or very good friends, chitchatting in the early morning.

“I can pay my way,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vivan said, walking back into the kitchen. “Go back to bed. I’m having some breakfast.”

Vincent went back to the sewing room. Vivan took out some yogurt and cereal. To make up for the absent paper, she fished an old one out of the recycling pile and turned on the radio.