The Princess of Burundi

Forty

The revolver on the table drew his gaze like a magnet. Lennart walked out into the kitchen again and again just to look at it. He had never owned a firearm of any kind, though he had often had a knife. The idea of going around with a revolver or pistol had never appealed to him. You could never be sure what it would lead to if the going got tough. The courts always looked more harshly on firearms, and they automatically carried higher sentences. A gun in your pocket made you a hard-core criminal, but with a knife you were just another drunk bum in a brawl.

The Belarusian dealer showed no surprise. He had heard what happened to Little John and completely understood Lennart’s need. He even sold it to Lennart on an installment plan, which he normally never did. “Do me a favor and make sure you survive,” the Russian had said laconically, “so you can pay me back my money.”

Sergei had lived in Uppsala for four years. He had had come to Sweden via Estonia and demanded political asylum. If someone like Lennart had been in charge he would have been sent packing, but now he had to admit that he felt a certain gratitude toward him.

Lennart had never wanted to kill anyone, but he needed a powerful weapon. With a revolver in his hand people would know he meant business.

He couldn’t help fingering the weapon. It was beautiful and frightening, threateningly metallic, and it filled him with anticipation, as if his own importance had grown. He wanted to keep it out so he could get used to the idea that he was armed.

Lennart had not had a drop of alcohol, not even a light beer, for thirty-six hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this sober. Maybe when he had been taken into custody by the police that time. But then he had been on the verge of confessing just so he could have a beer.

He felt like a new man, as if the old Lennart had stepped out of his body and was looking at his old shell. He saw himself walk around the apartment, stand in the window, look out at the snow, pick up the gun, and get dressed.

Tonight he wanted to get to the bottom of this. That’s how he felt. He was sure that Berit was involved in some way, and now the truth was going to come out. He didn’t want to hurt her, he couldn’t hurt her. She was after all John’s wife and mother to Justus.

He wanted so desperately to believe the assurances that she had been faithful, but Mossa’s words kept ringing in his ears: His whore for a wife. Strong words. He had always trusted Mossa, and why would he lie about this?

Was it Dick? He hadn’t seen him for a long time. Someone had said he was in Holland. That may be as it is, Lennart thought. I can go there. If he thinks he can get out of this he’s wrong. I will track him down to the ends of the world if need be.

He stepped out onto the snowy street, sober as a god and cleansed from his past life. He felt a great calm and strangely enough thought of his father. Was it the short interlude of working with Micke that had brought back these more frequent thoughts of his father? Albin had been good, not only as a welder but as a father. This conviction had grown in Lennart over the years, not least when he saw John with Justus.

He sighed heavily. He was back on Brantings square again. No tractor, no noisy teenagers, just mounds of snow and him. His need for alcohol made his innards contract as if he had a steel wire rigged up inside, a steel wire that was slowly being turned tighter, a fragile center of despair. It could break at any moment. He could run home and have a swig of something, but that would essentially mean giving up on the search for John’s killer forever.

He tramped on with gritted teeth. Christmas stars and blinking colored lights on the balconies lit up his way over Skomakar hill. “Albin and John,” he mumbled quietly. He felt as if Albin were with him, as if his father had stepped down from his roof and his heaven in order to support him. His father walked beside him in wordless sympathy. Occasionally he pointed up and Lennart understood that Albin had once been up there on those rooftops.