“He damaged the society’s name and good reputation,” said Tischler. “Clearly we couldn’t have someone like that.”
Was there anything else worth recounting about Waltin? Other than that he was a sadist?
For the next hour Tischler told in proper order about how Claes Waltin poisoned a dog, made himself guilty of arson, stole things from Tischler’s childhood home, was caught in the act of masturbating with a picture of Tischler’s own mother. Manufactured a revolver in shop class and already the next day shot a classmate in the rear end with the same weapon. Only a sampling from secondary school and high school, according to Tischler. Mattei was welcome to hear as much as she liked, if she could bear listening.
When Waltin first poisoned a dog and then burned down the dog owner’s cottage, he was fifteen years old.
“Waltin’s crazy mother owned a large estate outside Strängnäs. We used to go there sometimes, a few schoolmates, when we wanted to relax. Drink beer, play some good tunes, and squeeze the breasts of the local talent. Mother Waltin was always completely gone so things couldn’t have been better. There were a couple of retirees living in an isolated cottage near there that Claes got worked up about. Among other things because they had a dog that ran loose, but mostly because they lived in such ugly poverty, so to speak. So he decided to change that.”
“What did he do?” asked Mattei.
“First he treated the poor dog to rat poison wrapped in steak that their retarded housekeeper bought for little Claes at the Östermalm market. The dog ate, went home, lay down on the porch, and died. The problem was that his owners didn’t understand a thing. They got another dog. So Claes was forced to take new measures. He snuck over there and set fire to their house while they were asleep. Fortunately they got out in time, but the house and all their possessions burned up. Then they moved.”
“How do you know this?” asked Mattei. Because I’m guessing you weren’t there, she thought.
“He bragged about it at school,” said Tischler. “At first I didn’t believe him, but the next time I was down there I could see what had happened. Only the chimney was left on the shack. I already knew the pooch was dead.”
Two years earlier Tischler and his family had themselves been the victim of classmate Claes Waltin and his unrestrained criminal tendencies.
“Presumably he’d stolen a key to our apartment when he was visiting me and decapitating my tin soldiers. One weekend when we were in the country he came in and stole a few things. Among other things he swiped a nude picture of my mother from a photo album. My dad had photographed her, when mom was swimming nude, and obviously the photo was private.”
“But you continued to associate with him anyway,” said Mattei.
“I caught him a year or two later in the dressing room in the gym, beating off over the photo of my dear mother. Before that we hadn’t discovered anything. He seems to have taken wine and a little jewelry besides. But nothing that my parents missed.”
“So what did you do? When you caught him.”
“I hit him. Took back the photo. Smuggled it back into the photo album. Dad hadn’t even missed it. That was a year or so before they separated. Claes asked for forgiveness. Told a long story about how horrible his mother was and that he loved my mother and so on.”
“So you forgave him?”
“I’ve always been a very nice man,” Tischler observed with a contented sigh. “Much too nice, perhaps. Everyone loved my mother, so I forgave him.”
The thing with the revolver and the schoolmate who was shot in the ass hadn’t damaged their friendship either. Besides, Tischler himself had been involved.
Waltin bought a starter gun in a sporting goods store. He widened the barrel in shop class and transformed it into a.22 caliber revolver. They stole small-bore ammunition from Tischler’s dad, who was a Sunday hunter when he wasn’t seeing all his women.
“I kept watch down in the shop room while Claes stood there and drilled,” said Tischler. “On the other hand I wouldn’t have believed he’d use it to shoot one of our classmates in the butt.”
“So why did he do that?”
“The victim was a real character,” said Tischler. “He’s still a real character, by the way. In class we called him Ass Herman, Nils Hermansson. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s the guy who swindles people out of their money by offering so-called ethical funds. Listen to me, little lady. Alcohol, tobacco, firearms, casinos, and whorehouses have always given the best rate of return. Both in the long and the short term, so watch out for those characters. We wanted to scare him after school. The coward ran away. Claes fired one shot in his butt. I think he was aiming at it. Nisse Hermansson has always had a big ass and a small head.”
“So what happened to him?” asked Mattei.
“We actually helped him pick out the bullet. I guess we were curious too. Took the opportunity to take a closer look since we had the chance anyway. As I said he was called Ass Herman when we were in school. We pulled him into the school restroom and took a few emergency measures. Wasn’t so bad actually. He was wearing a long jacket and thick pants because it was winter. The bullet had gone in less than an inch. He was bleeding a bit, but it was actually no more than that. Fortunately Claes’s revolver was not as remarkable as he’d hoped. Nisse kept his mouth shut for once. Mostly complained about his coat and his pants, but we solved that for him. I had to go through Dad’s pockets one more time. Once I found seven thousand-kronor bills he’d forgotten in the breast pocket of a tuxedo when he was out on a binge. A lot of money at that time.”
Just an innocent boyish prank, thought Mattei.
“So there you have a small sampling. Say the word if you want more. There’s as much as you like,” Tischler concluded.
“I think I’m content for now,” said Mattei, looking at the clock to be on the safe side.
“The trophy,” said Tischler. “How could I forget that? Before you go you really do have to look at our old trophy.”
Tischler had taken the trophy with him when the Friends of Cunt Society eventually dissolved. He was completely within his rights, because he had been the society’s financial backbone. Most of them were done with their degrees and would go on in life. Rumor-spreader Claes Waltin was already expelled.
It was a silver-plated trophy about twelve inches tall. Crowned at the top by the figure of a naked woman who was not the least bit indecent, more like the image of chasteness.
“An ordinary sports trophy. Girls swimming, if I were to guess. Claes bought it at Sporrongs, but they refused to make the engraving, so I had to arrange that with the help of an old goldsmith I knew. He used to put together a lot of knickknacks on the sly for my old man’s various secretaries.”
Wise of Sporrongs, thought Lisa Mattei when she read the text. At the top the name of the society in elegant capital letters: Friends of Cunt Society. Beneath that the name of the member who was “Cuntmaster of the Year”: first Claes Waltin 1966. Then Alf Thulin, nowadays a conservative member of parliament and former chief prosecutor, whom she didn’t have permission to talk to. He had won the title in 1967. Then Claes Waltin again in 1968. The man she was now talking to without asking Johansson for permission, in 1969. A long-dead business attorney, Sven Erik Sjöberg, in 1970.
“Cool thing, huh,” said Tischler, grinning from ear to ear. “Do you know who this is, by the way?” he asked, pointing to the prize winner for 1967.
“Yes,” said Mattei. “If he’s the one I think he is.”
“Always was a fucking hypocrite,” said Tischler. “Looked hideous even back then, but he was completely phenomenal at getting the ladies on their backs. Wonder just how much he might give for this today?”