46. Nilsa
NILSA
1986
The car was idling and the radio blared. His cigarette was almost half-smoked. The street outside Konsum was deserted and songbirds chirped from the birches in the yard across the way. The sun was taking yet another lap around the sky, refusing to sink below the horizon. Nilsa, leaning against the car door, yawned and stretched. After an early-morning trip to town for a dentist appointment, he’d visited Pop at the home. That seldom put him in a good mood. This time, Isá had mistaken him for áddjá more than once, had looked frightened and asked what he was doing there.
“You leave my boy alone,” he’d said.
In reality, Isá had never had the courage to stand up to his father, had simply left Nilsa defenseless at the hands of áddjá.
An older woman opened the door of the grocery store with her shoulder and came out. She set her bag down on a bench, then clumsily buttoned her coat. She looked around at the same time, and for an instant their eyes met. The woman shoved her glasses up on her nose and touched her hair with one hand, drawing it past her ear and back to her bun, which she cupped for a moment. It was a familiar gesture, prompting Nilsa to take a closer look. Did his eyes deceive him?
The woman began to walk, her steps heavy, a slight limp in her right leg. She wore a skirt that nearly brushed her ankles, sturdy flats with a thick sole, a black coat, and a gauzy, pale blue scarf that peeked out at her throat. Her mouth was set in a grim line as though each step were a burden. With her right hand, she maintained a firm grip on her Konsum bag. She glanced at him in irritation and used her free hand to wave away his smoke as she passed him on the sidewalk, heading for Gruvv?gen. No doubt about it. That was Rita Olsson.
He flicked his cigarette away, opened the car door, turned off the engine, and locked the door. Nilsa wasn’t the type to be startled by a ghost from his past. But a throb in his ear grew steadily stronger.
So it was true. She was living here, as if nothing had happened. Rumor had it she’d become a Christian. That she’d asked forgiveness for her sins. Apparently God and the church thought it was perfectly logical to forgive a woman who had tortured children for decades.
Aslak.
That did it. His hunter’s instinct took over and his pulse grew steady. He could do this. All he had to do was follow her. Remain invisible. Silent. It would be nothing to drop her with a single blow.
But. Not yet.
This would take patience, just like hunting moose. Let your eagerness get the better of you and you’ll fire too soon. Wait for the animal and go for the kill at the perfect moment. He wasn’t going to fail. He could do this.
As she climbed the gentle slope toward the high-rises, the old hag stopped now and then to catch her breath and switch the bag, which didn’t look very heavy, to the other hand. He stopped as well, just a few meters behind her. At last she reached the door to her building and opened it with some difficulty; the air pressure made it heavier. Nilsa helped, but did she look up to thank him? No. He opened the elevator door as well and she stepped in, clearly relieved for a breather; she pressed the button for the sixth floor and leaned against the wall. Her hairline looked damp. It disgusted him, and so did the visible blood vessels in her cheeks, and her heavy eyelids. Worst of all were her hands, chapped and webbed with blue veins. They looked fragile, not at all like the hands he remembered from his childhood, back when they had been strong and could pinch your flesh down to the bone. All those cuffs to the ear, all the times the witch had hit him or Aslak. One time even when his unna viellja was naked in the showers. This image he’d buried many times, hadn’t allowed himself to recall. Back then, she noticed Nilsa’s every move. Today she treated him as though he didn’t exist. He wanted to grab those repulsive hands, break finger after finger, snap that wrist and twist that elbow until it rested at a funny angle. He wanted to squeeze his hands around her throat, force her to look at him. Dangle her thrashing body above the floor until she could no longer breathe.
But. Not yet.
The elevator stopped and he allowed her to exit first. There was no need for him to hide; she paid no attention to him as she unlocked her apartment. Stepped inside and left the door open as she dropped her bag on the floor and hung up her coat. Perhaps she noticed an unexpected shadow in the hall. He quietly closed the door behind him and locked it with a steady hand.
She had forgotten to turn on the lights and squinted, muttering something, suddenly awkward in her own home.
Laying a hand on another person wasn’t hard, had never been hard for Nilsa. Even so, he began to breathe faster. Oftentimes his rage surged forth in a way that overwhelmed even him.
The old bitch staggered back a few steps but didn’t utter a word. Did she recognize him? He hoped so.
Now.
A FTERWARD , N ILSA WOULDN ’ T REMEMBER what he had done, not the blows themselves. When at last he saw her sitting on the floor with blood trickling from one nostril, he was surprised—he’d never struck her face, but she was bleeding. He bent down and pinched her nose, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. He’d smelled frightened breath like that before.
“Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?”
There was terror in her eyes, but nothing to suggest she remembered.
“Surely you haven’t forgotten all the children you tortured at the nomad school?”
A whimper, and she managed to clasp her hands. He let go of her nose; the bleeding had stopped.
“Now it’s your turn to be scared.” He was still crouching before her. “I could kill you.”
“The home health service,” she mumbled. “They’re coming.”
He stood up to get a piece of paper towel and wetted it with ice-cold water from the faucet, then crouched before her again and scrubbed away the blood that had run over her lips. She wouldn’t be able to prove that someone had hit her.
“Nilsa,” he said. “You must remember me.”
“You—” She gasped, recognizing him now; he could see it in her eyes. That was more than enough. Pleasure flooded his body. He wasn’t afraid to tell her his name, in fact, he wanted her to know who he was. She hadn’t gotten away with what she’d done in the end, and he got to be the one to deliver the consequences. He wouldn’t be like his brother, would never demand an apology. That was like admitting you were a victim. Aslak had practically rolled over like a dog. Why did you do it, Aslak, why?
This prompted him to hit her again, just beneath the ribs to knock the wind out of her. He had to grab his own fist to keep from pummeling her senselessly until she stopped breathing entirely.
“You will not call the police. If you do, I’ll come back.”
She was still gasping for breath when he walked out.