Carl-Johan Vallgren is one of Sweden’s most beloved writers. He has been awarded the Swedish August Prize for Best Novel of the Year, and his work has been translated into twenty-five languages. Also a talented musician, he has a recording contract with Warner Music.
New York • London
© 2015 Carl-Johan Vallgren
English translation © 2015 by Rachel Willson-Broyles
Jacket design: Anna Henriksson/Pixelpiraya
Jacket photograph: Åsa Hjertstrand
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2016
Song lyrics on pp. 9, 10 & 14 from the song “Hurt” by Trent Reznor
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e-ISBN 978-1-681-44438-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016016382
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Ten Questions for Carl-Johan Vallgren
Carl-Johan Vallgren on The Boy in the Shadows
Guide
Cover
Begin Reading
Copyright
Table of Contents
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Prologue
Stockholm, 1970
He had taken bus 49 from Stadshagen with the younger boy sleeping in the stroller. It was early June. The seventh of June, to be precise. He would remember the date for the rest of his life.
The older boy was now walking alongside him, holding on to the canopy of the baby carriage. The little brown hand was sticky from all the sweets the boy had eaten at the party. A minute ago he’d said that his stomach hurt and he had to throw up, but now they were out in the fresh air and he seemed to feel better.
They had gotten off at the bus stop at Nordenflychtsvägen. As they waited for the bus to drive off so they could cross the street, the father studied the front pages of the newspapers outside the shop. On Aftonbladet’s was a photo from the World Cup in Mexico. The Swedish players’ faces somber after their loss to Italy at the group stage. Ove Grahn was quoted on the possibility of getting revenge when they played Israel. Expressen had gone for Palme’s state visit to the US.
“Dad,” said the boy. “I’m hot. Can I take off my jacket?”
“Sure. Put it in the stroller.”
Warmer weather had finally arrived, a bit late this year. He had been stressed out all day. First he’d been out on Lidingö to look at the property Gustav had bought for them, where they would build a house in the autumn. Then he’d come in to Stadshagen, where Kristoffer had been invited to a friend’s party, and then he’d gone off to Fridhemsplan with the little guy to have a bite to eat while Joanna visited a friend.
He’d taken the opportunity to have a few beers while Joel slept in the baby carriage—three large, strong beers, to be on the safe side—and he’d lost track of time and had to run to the bus to pick Kristoffer up in time.
They walked over the pedestrian crossing. A wino was pissing in Kristinebergs Slottspark. The man hadn’t even bothered to turn away; he was casually showing his cock as he stood there watering the flowers. At least he hadn’t gone that far. He was careful; he never drank so much that he was obviously tipsy.
“Can I have an ice cream, Dad? It’s hot.”
The boy’s voice warmed his heart, even when he was nagging.
“Isn’t your bag of sweets enough? And didn’t you have ice cream at the party? Peter’s mom said you did, anyway.”
“But I want more. Please, Dad . . . it feels like I’m burning up.”
“Listen, a few minutes ago you were complaining that your stomach hurt and you had to throw up. And now you want ice cream. Which is it?”
“But I feel better now. My tummy ache is almost gone.”
He loved this little boy, who had come into the world seven and a half years earlier, and who was walking at his side and whining about ice cream and refusing to hold his hand because he thought he was too old for it. That amiable, high-pitched, little-boy voice. The sense of humor he’d developed, even though he was only seven. And then, the moving fact that he was black, that the blood had skipped a generation, skipped him, and instead settled in a little Swedish boy.
But no matter how much he loved him and no matter how hard it was to resist him, he had no intention of giving him any more treats.
“Sorry, no more.”
“But, please . . .”
He yanked the boy toward him as a Volvo came speeding down Hjalmar Söderbergs Väg and passed them only half a meter away. Fucking road hog. The boy could easily have run out into the street just now, angry because he hadn’t gotten his way.
He held tight to the boy’s arm and took a deep breath to calm himself. He looked to the right, where the Traneberg Bridge rose up against the sky. A train that looked like a gigantic caterpillar on wheels rolled into the metro station. No point in getting stressed. They could take the next one. Joanna had gone straight back to the apartment after visiting her friend, and she was making dinner. They would have a cozy evening at home, enjoying Saturday night together, the whole family. And when the children had gone to bed, he and Joanna would open a bottle of wine and look at the drawings for the new house. The house with which his father was trying to buy his love.
The Volvo disappeared down toward Stadshagen, and they crossed Hjalmar Söderbergs Väg. The little boy had woken and was sitting up. Joel. The very opposite of his big brother. Pale skin, almost snow-white, with no hint of biracial features. The man loved him just as much as he did Kristoffer, of course, but in a different way—a bit less intensely, a little less painfully. As if Joel hadn’t had time to make as big an impression on him yet.
The door to the ticket hall slid open. He walked a meter to the side in order to look at the timetable. The trains were still running every five minutes; he had two Green Line trains to choose between.
The little guy had started howling—maybe he’d had a bad dream. He looked at the clock on the wall: five thirty. That couldn’t be right. Had he lost track of a whole hour? He looked at his wristwatch: four thirty. But the second hand wasn’t moving. The damn watch had stopped.
A woman came out of the Pressbyrån kiosk with a newspaper under her arm.
“Excuse me,” he said, “do you happen to know the time? Is it really five thirty?”
“Sure is. Five thirty. A few minutes past, even.”
She gave him a friendly smile. She was in her fifties. Wearing a kerchief, a colorful cotton dress, and rubber boots. She made him think of a farmer’s wife. The way they had looked when he was little, out in the country.
“Thanks.”
“It was nothing. Have a nice weekend!”
So he had lost track of a whole hour, which meant that Joanna was waiting for them at home, with dinner ready, wondering where they were. He accidentally ran the stroller into the metal column in front of the turnstiles. What a fucking place to put a bearing element. The little guy was crying louder; his legs had probably been bumped, even though the collision hadn’t been all that hard.
“Everyone calm down,” he said. “We’re a little late. Mom is waiting with dinner. We have to try to hurry.”
He handed the ticket to the turnstile guard in the booth and went through the gate. The baby was screaming even louder now. He was working up to hysterical tears, and only Joanna could comfort him.
“There. Shh, please don’t cry now.”
It was the beer. He shouldn’t have had it, or at least not the last two. Even if he wasn’t drunk, they had made his judgment waver, had made him get out of rhythm with the world, lose track of time, run into posts and barely avoid traffic accidents.
Another train was coming into the station; he could hear the thuds in the rails overhead. Several people were streaming in from the street, shoving from behind. Joel tried to get out of the stroller, still screaming, and he had to hold on to him with one hand while clutching Kristoffer with the other, thrusting the stroller ahead with his stomach.
The stairs or the elevator?
The stairs would be faster. But the ramp looked steep, and with Joel about to unravel it was probably a better idea to take the elevator. He pressed the call button.
“Dad, can I take the stairs?”
Kristoffer looked at him with those eyes he couldn’t refuse. Those Caribbean eyes. His own mother’s eyes, although he could barely remember them.
“No.”
“Please? I can walk by myself if you take the elevator. It’ll be fun.”
“You’re
too little.”
The half-empty bag of sweets he held firmly in his hand. The chocolate-brown child’s hand that wasn’t even half as big as his own. The red goo from a lollipop that was stuck on his cheek. How could he be drunk in the company of his sons?
“Please! I’ll wait for you up there.”
“I said no.”
All of a sudden a shadow fell across the boy’s face as someone stopped beside them.
“You can walk with me if you like. I’ll hold your hand until your dad arrives in the elevator.”
It was the woman in the kerchief again. She had come through the turnstile behind them, politely making room for a dad alone with a stroller and two whining kids. Kristoffer looked at her with wide eyes, judging whether this was someone he ought to be shy of or accept right away. Then Kristoffer looked at him, pleading.
“Please, Dad, can I go with the lady?”
“Okay. But hold her hand so you don’t fall. You can see how crowded it is. Lots of people everywhere. And then sit down on the bench up there and wait until I arrive in a minute.”
“I’ll sit with him until you’re there,” the woman said gently. “Come on now, young man, let’s go.”
Kristoffer smiled at him, showing his missing teeth. The woman gave him a motherly look. He would never forget it. Some moments, some images, would forever drill their way into his consciousness.
He watched as they started up the stairs. Kristoffer’s little hand in the woman’s larger one. She said something to him and he looked up at her with his big eyes and nodded in agreement just as the elevator dinged its arrival in the ticket hall.
He pushed the stroller in and pressed the Up button. His brain took small Polaroid pictures that would later etch themselves into his memory: the coffered ceiling with its three lights. The sign: 750 kilograms or ten people. The cigarette butts on the floor, the half-empty beer can in one corner.
The elevator stopped at platform level, swaying slightly. He opened the door, having no idea why he had broken out in a cold sweat, and abruptly he felt sober. The little guy was totally quiet now, as if he no longer wanted to be a bother. He walked quickly along the walkway to the tracks. A wall of metal grating on one side. Plexiglas on the other—you could see across the tracks, but you couldn’t see the stairs. A westbound train was in the station; the last few passengers were getting on. The driver shouted the usual “Please take your seats, the doors are closing” as he hurried forward. He heard the sucking sound as the train doors closed and the squeal of the metal wheels as the train began moving.
The glass door to the stairs opened. Soon he would see Kristoffer sitting there on the bench, waiting for him with his bag of sweets in his hand, beside the woman.
His beloved Kristoffer.
He turned the corner with the stroller and looked around. The stairs were empty. No one in sight. He could see the elevator door he’d stepped through a minute earlier on the lower level, the white tiles on the walls of the stairwell, the two large, fluted glass lights hanging from the ceiling. The graffiti on the empty bench.