The sun shone directly in his face. A coffee in the shade? A newspaper in the square? He decided to go out to the island instead, to Arnö, to his office. He would sit there and wait. Probably not write a word, but at least he’d be prepared, start the computer, read through his notes.
He opened the gate, nodded again to the father still sitting on the park bench, and continued toward his car.
He liked this nursery. It looked exactly the same as it had four years ago. The small gate, the white picket fence, the blue shutters. He’d been sitting outside for four hours now. There had to be at least twenty children inside. He’s seen children with their fathers and children with their mothers come and go, one by one. No child had arrived by herself. It was a shame. It was easier if they were alone.
Three girls had trainers. Two had on some kind of sandals, the kind with long leather straps that went up their legs. Some had arrived barefoot. It was, of course, unbearably hot today, but going barefoot, he didn’t like it. One had on red patent shoes with metal buckles. Those were the most beautiful. She’d arrived late, almost half past one, and she’d been with her father. She was a fair-haired little slut, with natural curls, who tossed her head as she spoke with her dad. Not a lot of clothes, a pair of shorts and a simple T-shirt, she must have dressed herself. She seemed happy—sluts are often happy. She’d skipped all the way up to the front door, alternating between two feet together and then one foot. Her father had nodded at him, greeting him. He’d nodded back, that’s being polite. When he came back—he’d been inside a little longer than the others—he nodded again.
He tried to see the slut through the window. Several heads passed by the window, but not those blond curls. She was surely looking for cock. Sluts want a lot of cock. She was hiding inside the house, with her T-shirt, her shorts, her red patent shoes with metal buckles, her legs bare. Sluts like showing skin.
Tinyboy sat in the TV corner of Unit H. He was tired. He always felt tired after smoking. The better the hash the more tired he got, and Turkish Glass made him the most tired of all. That shit was fucking good. The Greek had delivered on his promise. He’d said it was the best shit he had, and Tinyboy believed it—he’d rarely smoked better, and his experience was extensive. He looked at Hilding, who’d just been Hilding Wilding, but who now lay half asleep. It had been a long time since his face looked that peaceful. He wasn’t even scratching at that damn scab on his nose. The hand he usually had on his face lay still against his knee. Tinyboy leaned over to him, hit him on the shoulder. Hilding woke up, and Tinyboy gave him the thumbs up. Thumbs up and an index finger pointing at the shower room. They had more in there under the tile next to the ceiling lamp, at least enough to get high twice more. Hilding understood and smiled. He returned the thumbs up and then sank down into the chair again.
There’d been a hell of a lot of commotion in their unit today. First, the fucking new guy with the shaved head who thought he didn’t have to play by the rules here, who stood there with that big scar on his face staring Tinyboy down like a prize boxer. He found out the bastard’s name later. One of the young guards had kindly told him when he’d asked. Jochum Lang. What a fucking name. A fucking hitman, a fucking enforcer. Accused of a bunch of assaults and manslaughter, but only short sentences because no one ever dared to testify against him. But in this unit, he’d soon learn. In this unit, there were rules. Then Hitler, who wet his trousers on live TV and had still been stupid enough to take a shortcut through this unit on his way to the sex bunker. Guard Hitler with his wet trousers had run into them when the effects of the Turkish Glass were at their best but didn’t dare to say a damn thing. He must have smelled it and still decided to walk right past, headed to those sexual vermin, who should all be killed. And then Grens. Damned if that bastard didn’t walk by too. Limping as usual. He should be dead by now, he’d been around so long. Grens probably still got hard when he thought about it—he’d been one of the Stockholm cops who had driven down to Blekinge in 1989 to transport a crying thirteen-year-old boy from the sight of Per’s bleeding scrotum to the reformatory.
Bekir shuffled, cut, dealt. Dragan put two matches into the pot and took up his cards, Skåne put two matches into the pot and took up his cards, Hilding shoved his cards away, stood up, walked toward the toilet. Tinyboy picked up the cards, one by one, sneaked a peek at them. Shitty cards. Bekir shuffled like a bitch. They swapped cards. He swapped them all except one, the king of clubs, meaningless to save, but he never swapped them all, on principle. Four new. Equally worthless. King of clubs and four low cards gave no points. His move, he laid down his king of clubs and two of hearts and four of spades and seven of spades. Final round. Dragan played a queen of clubs and because both the king and the ace had already been played, he banged his hand triumphantly on the table, the matches were his, and the thousands they represented. He was about to take the pile of sticks when Tinyboy raised his hand.
“Dammit, what are you doing?”
“Taking my pot.”
“I haven’t played.”
“The queen is high.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“I haven’t played my card yet.”
He put his last card on the table. King of clubs.
“There.”
Dragan started waving his hands.
“What the hell? The fucking king has already been played.”
“I see that. But now I’m playing one more.”
“There’s no damn way you can have two king of clubs.”
“Can and do.”
Tinyboy grabbed hold of Dragan’s hands and pushed them away.
“Those are my sticks. I had the highest card. You owe me some, girls.”
He laughed loudly and hit the table. The guards in their station, three of them who mostly chatted through their workday, turned around, trying to see where the sound came from. They saw Tinyboy throw a pile of matches up at the ceiling and try to catch them in his mouth. They turned around again.
Hilding walked through the hallway on his way back from the toilet. He moved slowly, more awake than before, holding a paper in his hand.
“Hilding Wilding, who do you think took the pot? I’ll give you one guess. Who do you think’s sitting here waiting for his thousands?”
Hilding wasn’t listening. He was holding a piece of paper, showed it to Tinyboy.
“Fuck, you better read this, Boy. A letter. Milan got it today. He gave it to me when I was on the crapper. He thought I should show you. From Branco.”
Tinyboy gathered up the matches, put them one by one into an empty matchbox.
“Shut up, little pig. Why the hell should I read other people’s letters?”
“I think you should. And Branco thinks so, too.”
He gave Tinyboy the paper. Tinyboy stared at it, turned it this way and that, tried to give it back.
“No.”
“You only need to read the last part. From there.”
Hilding pointed to the fourth line from the end. Tinyboy followed his dirty finger.
“I . . .”
He cleared his throat.
“I had . . .”
He cleared his throat again.
“I hope . . .”
He rubbed his eyes, handed the letter back to Hilding.
“Pig, dammit, I can’t really see that well, my eyes, they sting like hell. You read.”
Hilding read while Tinyboy continued to scratch his eyes.
“I’m hoping to avoid any unnecessary misunderstandings. Jochum Lang is my friend. Here’s some good advice: get along with him.”
Tinyboy listened. Quiet.
“Signed, Branco Miodrag. I recognize the handwriting.”
Tinyboy took the letter, looked at the signature. Yugoslavians. The fucking Yugoslavians. He folded together the words, sentences, threw them and the matchbox onto the floor, stomped on the paper and matches. He looked anxiously around the corridor toward the cells, then Hilding slowly shook his head
at Skåne, at Dragan, at Bekir. They did what Hilding did, shook their heads for a long time. Tinyboy bent down and was about to pick up the paper with a black shoe print on it when a door farther away opened. It was as if he’d been waiting. Jochum Lang came out, walked toward the kneeling Tinyboy, who stood up and turned around.
“Dammit, Jochum, you don’t need to show me any papers. Fuck, you understand, we were just playing around a little.”
Lang didn’t look at him as he passed by, just spoke, almost in a whisper, though they could all hear it. Even quiet, it felt like a shout.
“Did you get a letter, tjavon?”
The nursery school was called The Dove. It was called that because it had been called that from the beginning. A long time ago. A name difficult to place. There were no doves there. Not even close by. Doves of love? Nobody knew. One of the older ladies in the social welfare department had been around since then, and she’d been asked but didn’t have much to add. She’d certainly been there for the opening and remembered it well, Strängnäs’s first modern day-care center, but had no idea where the name came from.
It was afternoon, almost four o’clock, most of The Dove’s twenty-six children remained inside but a few chose to go out. Sweltering heat as the sun attacked the day-care center. Usually, they made all the children go outside at this time of day, but the heat had been beating down on the unshaded yard for several weeks, and small bodies couldn’t take those kinds of temperatures.
Marie had decided to go out. She was tired of playing Indians, tired of having her face painted—the other kids didn’t paint very well, not any of them. They just put on brown and blue stripes and she wanted red rings. No one wanted to paint rings at all—she didn’t understand why not. She almost kicked David when he didn’t want to, but then she realized he was her best friend, and best friends didn’t kick each other over that kind of thing. So she had changed into her outside shoes and walked out into the yard. She wanted to ride in the pedal car. It was so yellow, and no one was using it right now.
She drove it for quite a while, twice around the house and three times around the playhouse and back and forth on the big pavement and then into the sandbox, where she got stuck and had to drag it backward to try to get it out. But that stupid pedal car didn’t budge, so she did what she’d wanted to do to David, she kicked it and said mean things to it, but still, it wouldn’t come loose. Not until that other father came over, the one who’d been sitting outside the gate on the park bench when they’d arrived, who Daddy said hello to and who seemed nice. He asked her if she wanted him to lift the pedal car, then he did, and she said thank you, which seemed to make him happy, but he said that there was a baby bunny next to the park bench that was nearly dead, and he was worried about it.
INTERROGATOR SVEN SUNDKVIST (I): Hello.
DAVID RUNDGREN (DR): Hello.
I: My name is Sven.
DR: I (inaudible)
I: Did you say David?
DR: Yes.
I: Nice name. I also have a son. He’s two years older than you. His name is Jonas.
DR: I know a Jonas.
I: That’s nice.
DR: He’s my friend.
I: Do you have many friends?
DR: Yeah. Kind of.
I: Good. Great. A friend named Marie?
DR: Yeah.
I: You know she’s the one I most want to talk to you about?
DR: Yeah. About Marie.
I: Great. You know what? I want you to tell me how it was at school today.
DR: Good.
I: Was it like it usually is?
DR: What?
I: Was it the same as always?
DR: Yeah. Same as always.
I: Everyone was playing?
DR: Yeah. Mostly Indians.
I: You were Indians?
DR: Yeah. Everyone was. I had blue stripes.
I: Ahh. Okay. Blue stripes. And everyone was playing?
DR: Almost everyone. Almost all the time.
I: Marie? Was she playing?
DR: Yeah. But not at the end.
I: Not at the end? Can you tell me why she didn’t want to play?
DR: She didn’t (inaudible) stripes and stuff. But I wanted to. Then she went outside. When she didn’t get rings. No one wanted to make rings. Everyone wanted stripes. Like (inaudible) I have. Then, I said you have to have stripes, too. No, I want rings, no one wants to paint rings. Then she went outside. No one else wanted to go outside. It was too hot. So we got to choose. We chose Indians.
I: Did you see when Marie went out?
DR: No.
I: Not at all?
DR: She just left. She was probably mad.
I: You continued to play Indians, and she went outside? Is that right?
DR: Yeah.
I: Did you see Marie again?
DR: Yeah. Later.
I: When?
DR: Later, through the window.
I: What did you see through the window?
DR: I saw Marie. She had the pedal car. She almost never had it. She was stuck.
I: She was stuck?
DR: In the sandbox.
I: She was stuck with the pedal car in the sandbox?
DR: Yeah.
I: You said you saw her. And she was stuck. What did she do then?
DR: She started kicking.
I: Kicking?
DR: The pedal car.
I: She kicked the pedal car. Did she do anything else?
DR: She said something.
I: What did she say?
DR: I didn’t hear.
I: Then what happened? When she kicked the pedal car and said something?
DR: Then the man came.
I: What man?
DR: The man who came.
I: Where were you then?
DR: By the window.
I: Were they far away?
DR: Ten.
I: Ten?
DR: Meters.
I: From Marie and the man?
DR: (Inaudible)
I: Do you know how far ten meters is?
DR: Pretty far.
I: But, you don’t really know?
DR: No.
I: Look out the window here, David, do you see the car out there?
DR: Yeah.
I: Was it that far?
DR: Yeah.
I: Are you sure?
DR: That’s how far it was.
I: What happened when the man came?
DR: He just came.
I: What did he do?
DR: He helped Marie with the pedal car.
I: How did he do that?
DR: He lifted it. He was strong.
I: Did anyone else see him lift it?
DR: No. It was just me there. In the hall.
I: You were alone? No other kids?
DR: No.
I: No teacher?
DR: No. Just me.
I: What did he do then?
DR: He talked to Marie.
I: What did Marie do when they were talking?
DR: Nothing. She talked.
I: What was Marie wearing?
DR: The same thing.
I: The same thing?
DR: Same as when she got here.
I: Do you think you could describe her clothes? What did they look like?
DR: A green T-shirt. Like Hampus has.
I: Short-sleeved?
DR: Yeah.
I: Anything else?
DR: Those red shoes. The really nice ones with metal things.
I: Metal things?
DR: The kind you snap.
I: What about for pants?
DR: Can’t remember.
I: Did she have on long pants?
DR: No. Not long pants. Shorts, I think. Or a skirt. It’s hot outside.
I: The man then? What did he look like?
DR: Big. He was strong. He pulled the pedal car from the sand.
I: What was he wearing?
DR: Pants, I think. Maybe a T-shirt. H
e had a baseball cap on.
I: A baseball cap? Was it for a certain team?
DR: For his head.
I: A baseball cap?
DR: Yeah. A cap.
I: Do you remember what it looked like?
DR: The kind you buy at the gas station.
I: And then? What did they do? When they finished talking?
DR: Then they went away.
I: They left? Where to?
DR: To the gate. The man fixed that thing.
I: What did he fix?
DR: That lock thing on the gate.
I: The latch? The thing at the top that you lift up?
DR: Yeah. That. He did that.
I: And then?
DR: Then they went out.
I: In which direction?
DR: I didn’t see. Just out.
I: Why did they go?
DR: We’re not supposed to. Go out. We’re not allowed.
I: How did they look when they left?
DR: Not mad.
I: Not mad?
DR: They were a little excited.
I: They looked excited when they left?
DR: Not mad.
I: How long did you see them?
DR: Not long. Not after the gate.
I: They disappeared there?
DR: Yeah.
I: Anything else?
DR: (Inaudible)
I: David?
I: You’ve been really really good. You’re good at remembering. Can you sit here for a bit while I talk a little to the other guys?
DR: I can.
I: Then I’ll go and get your mom and dad, they’re waiting down there.
II
(one week)
Fredrik Steffansson made it to the two o’clock ferry—bright yellow and ocean blue, the national Transport Administration colors. The ferry only went once an hour between Oknön and Arnö: a four- or five-minute journey—the symbolic divide between the mainland and the island, between where time was in a hurry and where time was at rest. The red house with white trim was a fifteen-minute drive from Strängnäs. He’d bought it a month before Marie was born, when he no longer found it possible to write at home. It had been in ruins then, standing in the middle of a jungle. He and Agnes had used the first few summers to turn that ruin into a house, the jungle into a garden. Soon, he’d have been here six years. He’d written three books here, a trilogy that sold decently, soon to be translated into German. The publisher had made an economic assessment and found that it had the potential to make more than what the launch would cost. Nowadays, Swedish titles found their way onto foreign bookshelves, too.
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