“Is it here?”
“Let’s sit down,” said Frank Give, heading for the only vacant bench. Björn Rönn followed obediently.
Peppartorget was full of life, that was his first impression. The food store was a magnet, people streamed in and out in a steady flow. Many came from the subway, perhaps picking up something on their way home from work. The mandatory beggar was sitting on a box outside the entry. He was an older man who did not appear to take his task all too seriously. A stand with secondhand items was run by a black woman, who also looked relaxed. Outside the pizzeria a group of teenagers was hanging around.
“You see what it looks like. Lousy.”
“You were born here?”
“Then there was style. We had the Finns of course, a few Yugoslavs, but otherwise it was calm.” He had a crooked smile, and Björn Rönn could sense some of the old charisma that made Frankenstein, as he was sometimes called, a successful charmer. Where women were concerned he’d had it easy. Now a scar disfigured his one cheek, and tattoos over parts of his throat and neck did not improve things, but what definitely dragged down the overall impression was the bitterness he vented all too often.
He talked on about the Hökarängen of his childhood. Björn Rönn listened with half an ear while he studied the people on the square.
“Is it here?” he interrupted Frank’s verbiage.
“Do you see the darkies? They’ve occupied the square with a fucking yurt to sell rotten fruit. That’s how it looks in every single suburb.”
“It’s in Uppsala too. I think it’s usually cheap.” Björn said something about Vaksala Square.
“It’s because they sell drugs too. And ISIS is there, you can bet your ass on that. Market trading is a perfect cover for the mullahs.”
Björn checked the benches to their right and left. They were occupied by winos who howled and argued only to fall into each other’s arms at the next moment. Winos, but no darkies. As far as he could see they were of Nordic origin.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Is it that smart, I mean, a lot of people of all types are here.”
“A point has to be made,” said Frankenstein.
“But children.”
“They’re in class.”
“Infants in strollers don’t go to school.”
“Day care,” Frank said, leaning back.
“But it’s a Saturday.”
“All the same.”
Björn made an opposite movement, leaning forward, as if he felt sick, stealing a glance at his friend. He’d known Frank for several years. The first time they met was at a demonstration south of Stockholm. Frank had been just as crazy then, but the difference was that in Salem he carried a knife and now he had access to Austrogel-brand explosive sticks.
“Then it will be Alby.”
“Where’s that?”
“Further south,” said Frank. “Looks a lot like this. There’s a town center. We’ve selected a few more places.”
Frank tried to give the appearance of energy, striking a clenched fist against the armrest of the bench while he counted up five suburbs: Skärholmen, Fittja, Flemingsberg, Rinkeby, and Hallunda.
“After Alby we’ll take another square, then we’ll wait a few days before we strike one more. That’s how they do it.”
“Who is that?”
“The ones who know how to create terror. After that the darkies won’t dare to hawk a single tomato, and no one will shop with them. It’s important to create insecurity and chaos, then half the battle is won.”
Björn Rönn stared toward the fountain in the square, where someone had amused themselves by pouring in shampoo. It looked playful, he liked it, likewise the children who chased foam bubbles that flew away at the slightest puff of wind. At the vegetable stand there was no invasion exactly, but a never-ending stream of customers kept commerce going. There were both light- and dark-skinned people, women in shorts and fluttering tops, as well as in hijab. A bum was holding a concert and did it reasonably well with an old popular song, one that Björn’s father used to whistle early in the morning when he was on his way to the barn. Björn tried to make out the words, but the distance was too far and the song soon died away.
“Shall we have a beer?”
“I’m driving.”
“Whatever,” said Frank. “Let’s go to my place. I think Lena has fixed something.”
He did not await an answer but instead got up from the bench. Björn hesitated, but followed. He had to pick up the car outside Frank’s house anyway.
When they had walked awhile Frank pointed at the grocery store’s sign with a sneer. “ICA Bomb. Fits fucking well.”
Sjöskumsvägen, the street where Frank lived, was in a neighborhood that Björn guessed was built in the forties. He had helped renovate numerous similar areas, including several in Uppsala. They sat on the balcony with a view of an extended greenbelt where there was a wading pool, with swings, slides, and sandboxes visible farther away. Everything was worn, but still marked by the concept the planners once had, airy and functional. Children were playing in the pool. Their voices and shrieks echoed in the warm spring evening. That was something he missed, children’s voices. It was silent in Rasbo, and had been a long time, in any event where he and his brother lived.
Frank Give talked on. His wife, Lena, had set out tacos. There was beer in a cooler on the floor.
“You can sleep over,” she offered when Björn said no to a Singha.
He smiled and shook his head. His mouth was full of chips and some green mush. He didn’t like that kind of finger food, but ate anyway, and tried to show something that resembled appetite. But the fact was that he felt nauseated.
“I have to get up early,” he said, when he finally managed to swallow the Mexican slop.