During those nights, I started dreaming about Ewa Kaludis again. Sometimes she had a black eye, sometimes not. I suspected Edmund was dreaming of her in his bed, too, and when I asked, he admitted it freely.
“Of course,” he said. “She’s got her hooks in me. Britt Laxman feels sort of stale now.”
“Britt Laxman? You’re not saying you used to dream about her?”
“Well,” said Edmund. “Not dream, exactly. Fantasize.”
Soon we were talking about whether or not it was possible for two people to dream the same dream. Could Edmund and I, each in our own bed, be looking at the same images of Ewa Kaludis? Like sitting in the cinema and watching the same film?
I didn’t see why not. The dream factory might have some sort of rationing program and there might just not be enough unique dreams to go around for each person each night.
Edmund disagreed.
“They can’t be that darn stingy in the dream world,” he said. “It’s only in our crap world that you have to go around scrimping and scrounging. Can’t we at least have our dreams to ourselves?”
To each person a dream?
I hoped Edmund was right. It sounded fair and democratic—as Brylle would say during social studies. As for our nightmares, we never discussed those.
After the murder my brother Henry stuck closer to Gennesaret than before, but that didn’t make him any more talkative. He didn’t write much either; mostly he lay on his bed, reading what he’d already written, I think. He took Killer out for short spins and went for a row on the lake a few times too. But he was rarely gone for more than an hour. On Tuesday morning, he said he had to go to Örebro and would be away for a while. He set off soon after twelve, and Edmund and I decided to give the pinball machine down at Fläskhällen another try. We were just about to set off in the boat when a man appeared around the side of the house.
He looked to be in his thirties. But with thinning hair. He wore a white nylon shirt and sunglasses and was waving both of his arms, so we’d understand that he wanted to have a word with us.
We looked at each other and went ashore.
“Lundberg,” he said when we’d reached him. “Rogga Lundberg. I’m looking for Henry Wassman.”
I introduced myself and explained that Henry wasn’t home. And that he’d probably be away for a while.
“Aha,” said Rogga Lundberg. “You’re his little brother, aren’t you?”
I didn’t like him. At first glance, I knew Rogga Lundberg was nothing you’d hang in the Christmas tree and was to be gotten rid of as quickly as possible. Maybe the sunglasses were what gave away his unsavory nature; he didn’t bother to remove them even though it was a cloudy day.
And yet, I did admit to being Henry’s brother.
“Let’s sit down and have a little chat,” Rogga Lundberg said. “I know Henry. It’d be fun to get to know his brother, too. Who’s your pal?”
“Edmund,” Edmund said.
Reluctantly we sat down at the garden table. Rogga lit a cigarette.
“I’ve worked with Henry a bit,” he said. “At Kurren. I’m freelance, too.”
With that, the word freelance lost some of its sheen.
“So, there’s a lot going on around here.” He gestured toward the woods and the clearing. Edmund and I didn’t move a muscle.
“It’s not every day there’s a murder on our doorstep. Yup, I’m doing some writing about it, you know. One man’s death is another man’s bread. You read Kurren, don’t you?”
“We don’t know anything about it,” I said.
“We just happen to live nearby,” said Edmund.
“Really?” said Rogga Lundberg, flashing a smile. “But Henry knows quite a bit, doesn’t he?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back in the chair as if sunning himself. Wearing those damned sunglasses. Even though it was cloudy. He took two drags from his cigarette and then let it hang from the corner of his mouth.
“When’s he back, did you say?”
“Late,” I said, suddenly reminded of the conversation I’d had with Berra Albertsson less than a week before. It had been almost exactly the same, and this made the hair on the back of my neck bristle with dread. “Won’t be back until tonight, probably.”
“Does he have nocturnal habits, your brother?”
I didn’t respond. Edmund took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. A nervous tic.
“Listen,” said Rogga Lundberg, sounding serious all of a sudden. “It’s just as well you understand what the police are thinking. Or that Henry does. That’s why I want to have a word with him.”
“Is that so?” I said.
He flicked his cigarette over his shoulder. “Nothing strange about it,” he said. “Clever boys like yourselves shouldn’t have a problem catching my drift. Especially if you put your heads together.”
We didn’t respond.
“Berra Albertsson was found up where you park the cars. Right? On the night between Wednesday and Thursday last week?”
I nodded reluctantly.
“Someone beat him to death right as he was getting out of his car. So, the police’s first conclusion must be that he’d intended to park there. Can you tell me why?”
“You don’t have to answer,” Rogga Lundberg continued when neither Edmund nor I showed any sign of speaking. “It’s obvious. There’s only one reason you’d park up there. Either he was going to visit the Lundins or he was going to visit you … It’s one or the other. There are no other alternatives. What do you have to say about that?”
“Maybe he was stopping for a piss,” said Edmund.
“And a madman just happened to be up there,” I said.
Rogga Lundberg didn’t mind the interruption.
“Let me tell you, that was the police’s theory from the start: Super-Berra had planned on coming here—or going to the Lundins’ over there …” He nodded toward the Lundins’ place. “And there was someone who wanted to prevent him from getting there. Or here. And they succeeded … Hmm?”
The question mark after the “hmm” was as clear as day, but neither I nor Edmund made any attempt to reply.
“The police focused on the Lundins first, of course—they’re no strangers to this sort of thing. Unfortunately, that was a dead end. In this case, there isn’t much pointing to their involvement.”
“How c-c-could you know that?” said Edmund. “Y-y-you’re talking a lot of shit.”
It was the first time I’d heard Edmund stutter. Rogga Lundberg lost track of himself for a second. Then he gave a contemptuous sniff and took out another cigarette.
“This is why I need to talk to Henry, see,” he said. “Shame he isn’t home. It’ll be too bad if we can’t have a talk soon.”
Cancer-Treblinka-Love-Fuck-Death, I thought for the first time in a long time.
“So you should probably let him know I stopped by and tell him what I said. You can tell him I know about his romantic entanglements, too. One in particular. He’ll understand.”
He got up and lit a cigarette, looking at us through those dark lenses. Then he shrugged and left.
We stayed put for a long time and tried to forget him. But we couldn’t.
It was probably the conversation with Rogga Lundberg that made us tackle the Ewa Kaludis problem that very Wednesday.
Henry was sleeping when we got up. We hadn’t heard him come home the previous night, and before we set off we left a note on the kitchen table saying that a colleague had come looking for him. I didn’t want to say more; it would be better to tell him the rest when we were back in the evening.
It was a warm but windy day. We left on our bikes in the morning, but Edmund got a flat about halfway between Sjölycke and Åsbro. We had to go down into th
e village and spend an hour outside of Laxman’s with a bucket of water, patches, and rubber solution. Britt Laxman wasn’t there; Edmund and I thought it was just as well, and finally we decided the inner tube would be able to hold air again.
The headwind meant that we didn’t reach town until around two. We’d called my dad from Laxman’s—it was the second of his three weeks of holiday and he hadn’t yet gone to the hospital—and said we were thinking of stopping by Idrottsgatan. When we arrived, he’d just started to prepare hamburgers and onions.
His cooking was so-so, as usual, but we were hungry and he looked pleased when we’d eaten up.
“Good, boys. Eat until you burst. You never know where your next meal is coming from.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” said Edmund.
“Has it settled down out there?” my father wondered.
We nodded. If we let anything slip about Henry and Ewa Kaludis or Rogga Lundberg, he’d lock us in on the spot and forbid us from ever setting foot in Gennesaret again. I felt ashamed about keeping him in the dark and hoped I’d have a chance to explain later.
Somehow. I just didn’t know how.
“I’m glad you boys have each other,” my father said.
“A burden shared is a burden halved,” Edmund said.
We ate rhubarb cream for dessert; my father wondered if I felt like coming along to see my mother, but Edmund and I had a thing or two to take care of. He was fine with that, and we all left Idrottsgatan together. My father, to catch the bus to Örebro. Us, to pay a visit to the fiancée whom the murdered handball star had left behind.
But first we procrastinated for two hours.
We spent the first in the cement pipe and smoked the four loose Ritzes we’d bought at the kiosk at the station when we passed through Hallsberg.
The second we spent sitting on a bench in Brandstation Park fifty meters from the yellow-tiled villa on Hambergsgatan.
It wasn’t easy figuring out what we wanted to talk to Ewa Kaludis about. The closer we came to being face-to-face with her, the colder our feet got. We didn’t seem to want to admit it to each other, but I noticed Edmund was at least as jittery about seeing her again as I was.
Because Ewa Kaludis might be keeping a lot to herself. She might know things that maybe it was better for two fourteen-year-old admirers not to know.
On the other hand, she might very well need our help, and this was the reason for our gentlemanly relief mission. When all was said and done, there was nothing to suggest that she and my brother Henry had had any contact with each other in the week since the murder—at least, that’s what we thought after turning the situation around in our heads, forward, backward, and sideways.
Neither of us wanted to draw a conclusion.
On the other-other hand (and maybe this was what gave us our courage) there was a good chance she wouldn’t even be home on a day like this, and we’d be able to go back to Gennesaret with our self-esteem intact and our task unaccomplished.
When the Emmanuel Church’s clock struck half-past five, Edmund sighed deeply.
“Screw it,” he said. “We’re ringing her doorbell. Now.”
And so we did.
-
18
“Erik and Edmund,” Ewa Kaludis exclaimed. “So good of you to come. It’s been … no, actually, I don’t know.”
We could hardly believe we were inside Ewa Kaludis’s home. And that she and Super-Berra lived in this gleaming tiled mansion. Well, Super-Berra didn’t live here anymore, but his presence was palpable. Framed diplomas hung on the walls and most of the shelves of the large bookcase in the living room were filled with trophies and plaques testifying to what an outstanding athlete he’d been. The coolest one hung above the TV. A huge photograph of Berra Albertsson and Ingemar Johansson. They were both wearing ties and giving the camera crooked and world-weary smiles, so you could tell beyond a shadow of a doubt that these weren’t just any old nobodies shaking mitts. I felt a little queasy looking at the picture; it seemed to flicker inside my head.
Otherwise, it was obvious that Ewa was happy about our visit. Like she’d been expecting us. When we’d finished staring at the trophies she led us straight through the house to the back patio where there was a table with a parasol and four chairs. She invited us to sit and asked if we wanted fruit drink and cake.
We did, and she disappeared inside the house again.
“These are quite some digs,” said Edmund.
“Mm,” I said.
“Did you see Ingo?”
I nodded. Then we sat there, clutching the sun-warmed armrests, which were made of a redolent dark-brown wood, and tried to adapt to our surroundings. It wasn’t easy. Of all the friends’ houses I’d visited none had been like this, and the tingling in my body and Edmund’s grew stronger the longer we sat, waiting, feeling small. I peeked through the balcony door. It was remarkable. Expanses of floor without any furniture. Without a specific function. A glass table. A tree in a huge clay pot. An odd painting with red and blue triangles and circles. Pretty damn remarkable, actually.
And it all looked like it had come straight from the furniture factory last week. I glanced at Edmund; he was having similar thoughts. This place was something else. Berra and Ewa Kaludis were of a different kind, and that got me down—it was as if the insurmountable distance between myself and Ewa had reasserted itself.
Like it ever could have been surmountable.
I’m not sure what I meant by that. My thoughts wandered and spun, and I bit my cheek. How self-involved was I, sitting here thinking these dumb thoughts? Circumstances being what they were.
Ewa returned with a tray that held a jug, glasses, and a small plate with pieces of hedgehog slice.
“So good of you to have come,” she repeated and sat across from us. “I’ve been so worried … didn’t know what … what to do.”
You could still see where his fists had met her face. She was yellowish around the eye with patches of blue and her lower lip was swollen and scabbed.
“Well, we thought …” said Edmund. “… we’d swing by. Since we were in town anyway.”
“And hear how you’ve been,” I added.
Ewa poured the yellow fruit drink for us.
“It’s … I don’t understand it,” she said.
I wondered what it was she didn’t understand, but I didn’t say anything.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” said Edmund.
Ewa looked at him with surprise, like she didn’t quite know what he meant.
“Loss?” she said. “Oh, that, of course.”
I reached over and took a piece of hedgehog slice. I wondered if she’d made it herself. And if so, had she done it before or after the murder? It tasted pretty fresh, but presumably they had a freezer, so it could be either-or.
“Have you seen Henry lately?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Not since … No, not since.”
“Oh?” said Edmund. “No, that’s probably just as well.”
Ewa sighed deeply, and it was only then that I realized just how worried she was. When I dared to look more closely I saw her eyes were quite red, in addition to the yellow and blue, and I guessed that she’d been crying. And recently, too.
“Does he know?” she asked. “Does Henry know you’re here?”
“No,” Edmund and I said in unison.
“Hm,” said Ewa Kaludis, and I couldn’t tell if she thought it was good or bad that Henry hadn’t sent us.
Maybe she’d been hoping we had a message from him, maybe not. We ate the cake and had our drink.
“It was no good between us,” she said. “It was no good between me and Berra. You must be wondering.”
“Well,” said Edmund.
I said nothing and tied a shoelace that had come undone.
“It couldn’t have kept going the way it was, but it didn’t have to end like this. I feel so sorry for Henry; it’s all my fault. If I’d only known … even in my wildest imagination, I couldn’t have imagined …”
“What does anyone know,” I said.
“Man proposes but God disposes,” said Edmund.
“I don’t know how I didn’t see Bertil for who he was until it was too late,” Ewa continued. “How could I not have known it was wrong from the start? When I met your brother, I realized how mad it all was. Dear God, if some things could be undone.” She paused and ran her fingers over her swollen lip. “Still, I did love him. If only you could turn back time, just once.”
She was talking more to herself now than to Edmund and me. Her words weren’t meant for the ears of fourteen-year-old boys, I could tell, and while I was thinking that, I also felt a little sorry for Berra Albertsson.
Well, I didn’t feel sorry for him because he was dead. It’s just that it couldn’t have been much fun to have had the love of a woman like Ewa Kaludis and then wake up one morning to find that love gone.
Even though this flew through my mind for just a split second, I suspected it was one of the few truly deep thoughts I’d had lately.
One of those recurring questions.
If it’s better to be loved and then unloved, or not to be subjected to it in the first place.
A “clincher,” I think they call it.
“I wander around here not knowing which way is which,” said Ewa Kaludis. “I’m sorry I’m going on like this, I’m not really myself.”
“We understand,” said Edmund. “Sometimes you’re stuck in the mud, and don’t know how to get out.”
Ewa didn’t answer. I cleared my throat and took a chance.
“Were you there that night?” I asked.
She took a deep breath and looked at me.
“In Gennesaret?” I clarified.
She looked at Edmund for a while before answering.
“Yes,” she said. “I was there.”
“Do the police know?” I asked.
She leaned back in the chair and folded her hands in her lap.
The Summer of Kim Novak Page 13