Still, three weeks later they were a couple. Six weeks later he moved in with her.
It was the apartment he’d fallen for.
Not the one in Kallhäll, obviously, but the big one on Strandvägen. Her grandfather’s apartment, which the Ditz was going to inherit. And after two months Klas got to see it himself when the major general invited them to dinner.
It was magnificent. Five large rooms on the fifth floor with gorgeous stucco work and a wide balcony that looked over the docks and the water. A century-old parade apartment. A bit dark and dusty, but that was easy to fix — just a matter of tossing all the old furniture, polishing up the parquet, and painting the walls white.
Klas wanted to live there, absolutely. He saw himself walking around the apartment in a Turkish robe, alone (the Ditz was missing from this particular fantasy), saw himself standing out on the balcony with a cappuccino and studying the street life down below. In the center. High above the rest of the world, far away from Kallhäll...
He opened his eyes and studied the Ditz’s grandfather. The major general sat in a wheelchair at the dining table, looking like a tattered crow in a cardigan with a bent neck and a croaking voice. His hand trembled as he lifted a large brandy glass. Now and then he threw a severe glance at the wall clock. Did he want them to leave?
“No, Grandfather’s just a little time crazy,” the Ditz told him on the train ride back to Kallhäll. “His routine is always the same, year round. At half past eight he rolls out on the balcony to make sure the Swedish flag has been hoisted up on Kastellholmen, so he knows that we aren’t at war. At ten the home help comes and drops off lunch and at twelve he eats. At one he has a glass of brandy. And he listens to the news on the radio all day...”
“Does he ever go out?” Klas asked.
“Only out onto the stairwell,” the Ditz said. “He rolls out at three thirty to water the fig tree.”
Klas remembered that tree — it stood in a large limestone pot outside her grandfather’s door. He nodded at the Ditz and pondered.
He decided to become more punctual.
Every morning, after having met the Ditz’s grandfather, he went into the city earlier than he needed to and headed down to Strandvägen. Just before eight thirty, he stood on Strandvägen in the shelter of some trees and observed the windows of 13B.
The Ditz was right: her grandfather was like a cuckoo clock. At exactly eight thirty the balcony door opened and the major general rolled out in his wheelchair. Five minutes later the door shut again.
Like a fucking cuckoo clock. And this suggested that he was equally punctual the rest of the day too.
With his eyes locked on the apartment’s high window one morning, Klas decided what he was going to do.
It was a Thursday like any other that he took the cap and gloves to work at Sailor Store. Later that afternoon he complained of a sudden migraine and went into the staff room to rest. He carefully locked the door, but didn’t make it onto the couch; the store had a back door and he used it to sneak out.
Out on the sidewalk he glanced at the clock; it was 3:18. The day was cloudy, but there was no rain in the air.
He started across the dry asphalt. He didn’t run, but took long strides. Down to Strandvägen.
Six minutes later he was at the door of 13B. It was locked, but he had memorized the code the Ditz had punched in.
Half a minute later he stood inside the dark stairwell and pulled on his gloves and cap. He listened anxiously for any sound. Everybody was at work, everything was still. And so was he, after he’d snuck up the wide marble steps.
At 3:28 Klas reached the second floor and listened again. The stairwell was silent, all the apartment doors were shut.
A minute later he stood in the dark on the fourth floor. Waiting.
At exactly 3:30 he heard a door open on the fifth floor. The old man coughed. A soft creaking noise, the sound of rubber wheels rolling across the stone floor.
Klas clenched his jaw. He summoned the old rattling elevator up from the first floor so that the racket would cover any other noises. Then he started up to the fifth floor.
Now he could see the wheelchair on the landing right above him; the back of a naked head visible. The Ditz’s grandfather was hunched over in his chair, facing away from Klas.
The major general mumbled to himself as he fiddled with his fig tree. The chair’s back wheels were only a few inches from the top step.
The elevator continued to rattle. All the doors were shut. Klas was set.
Now.
He stepped up with an outstretched hand, grasped the wheelchair’s steel rim, and quickly jerked it back in one sharp move. The wheels went over the marble edge, the whole chair tipped back. Klas stepped aside and saw the major general’s hands flap like startled birds in the air. He fell down, the back of his head first, his body somersaulting down the stairs, landing with a low thud at the bottom.
Klas didn’t even glance at the old man. He stopped the wheelchair’s fall so it didn’t make a loud clatter, climbed the stairs, and dragged the heavy stone pot toward him.
Turning around with the pot in his hands, he saw that the major general was still alive. He’d landed on his back with his head to the side. Klas bent over him, balancing the stone pot on the stair right above the old man’s wrinkled brow.
The Ditz’s grandfather recognized him; when their eyes met he understood exactly what Klas was about to do; he opened his mouth and let out a terrified breath of cognac. However, no cry for help could escape before Klas let the stone pot fall. The pot’s edge struck its target perfectly, causing the major general to shudder one last time.
Klas was finished here. He stood and fled. The elevator had since stopped on the fourth floor, but he took the steps in long strides. The stairwell remained empty the whole way down to the bottom floor. No one had heard or seen a thing. He stripped off the cap and gloves on the fly.
Out through the door, out onto the street. Look relaxed now, not hounded.
He was back at work five minutes later — it was only 3:43. He entered through Sailor Store’s back door, stepped into the shop, and told the boss that he felt better.
His boss looked him over. “Are you sure? You seem sweaty.”
Klas smiled quickly and wiped his forehead. “Just a slight fever.”
At five thirty that evening he headed home to Kallhäll, where the Ditz stood slicing beets.
Klas closed his eyes and kissed her neck. Then he sat next to the TV, awaiting the vile veggie meal. And, obviously, anxiously waiting for the telephone to ring with a call from Stockholm.
And so it did late that evening. It was a death report, a tragic fall down the stairwell, an accident that sometimes happens to old men, especially when there is alcohol in their system. The police didn’t suspect any foul play, and Klas wrapped his arms around his sobbing girlfriend and sighed.
The reading of the will was held eight days later, and the Ditz took the commuter train alone to the lawyer’s office. She had several handkerchiefs with her, she was still grieving.
Three hours later she arrived back in Kallhäll, her eyes red-rimmed, and immediately began slicing and dicing in the kitchen.
Klas joined her at the sink and quietly asked: “How did it go, sweetheart?”
“Good,” she said softly.
“Did they read the will?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re inheriting...?”
“Yes...”
Klas closed his eyes in the narrow kitchen and felt nearly intoxicated by success; he was tired, he’d slept poorly this last week, but he saw an enormous apartment with a broad balcony before him. Mine, he thought.
“... and my cousins.”