For many years, Elsa had longed to get back to that feeling in the kitchen, the peaceful chatter and the smell of sweat and welding, even though she understood that it belonged to a time gone by. Now and again, when he had been drinking, the old words and phrases could come back. Then he laughed, for a moment freed of the politician’s mask that he had so carefully adopted. He grabbed her, heavily, drawing her to him, clumsily but with determination. She liked it, but was also embarrassed, because of his lust, his own weakness. Finally she pushed him away, disgusted with her two-faced husband.
Elsa thought about calling the assisted living facility to tell Ante that Sven-Arne had been spotted in India, but she decided to wait and go to see him instead. Maybe she could surprise the old man and get him to reveal something? If he really had been in league with Sven-Arne.
THIRTEEN
He cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid as to return to the garden? He should have left town. He knew that Jan Svensk came from an unusually stubborn family. He was probably like his father.
It was only sheer luck that Svensk had not caught him. Sven-Arne had observed him entering the nursery and taken refuge in the little shop at the back of the garden, and there he had hidden himself away while Lester had detained Svensk.
He had watched him leave after a while, and in the Swede’s movements he read anger and frustration. It gave him no satisfaction. Instead, he just felt guilty. Jan Svensk was probably not a bad man, he was simply curious.
Lester immediately came into the shop. He was amused, that much was clear, but made an effort not to show it.
‘He has gone now.’
‘I saw that,’ Sven-Arne Persson said, with curiosity but at the same time unwilling to listen to what Svensk had said.
‘Do you know where Harsha hotel is?’
‘Of course,’ Sven-Arne said, ‘in Shivajinagar, not far from Russell Market.’
‘If you want to, you can find him there.’
Lester smiled, and Sven-Arne did not understand what was so funny.
‘Sven-Arne, is that your name?’
Lester had such a peculiar pronunciation of his name that at first Sven-Arne did not catch it.
‘No, my name is John Mailer. I am John Mailer. And what would I want with him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lester said, ‘but he said that you had been a powerful man in your country. That you were a politician and in charge of many, like a governor. It confused me.’
‘A powerful man!’ Sven-Arne stared at his co-worker. For the first time in twelve years, Sven-Arne mistrusted his motives. What was he trying to say?
‘I am not powerful,’ he said. ‘I am just a human being like anyone else.’
‘You are an unusual person,’ Lester said slowly. ‘You may have a terrible past.’
Never before had he censured the Swede, never snooped in his background or his reasons for coming to India, never questioned his work as a day labourer in a botanical garden, and had never pressed him in this way. For that was what it was. In his words there was a criticism, Sven-Arne understood this.
‘You may be a murderer,’ Lester went on, unconcerned.
Sven-Arne stared at him, even more perplexed.
‘It is of no consequence to me.’
‘What do you mean? Do you think I-’
‘It does not matter who you were!’
A couple of shop clerks looked up.
‘Here in India we are equal,’ Lester said, now much more softly, ‘at least those of us who dig in the earth. Even if you had been the governor it doesn’t matter. You have no servants here. Here we are equals.’
Sven-Arne relaxed. He smiled at his friend and took hold of his left upper arm, squeezed it and felt the sinewy muscles under his shirt.
‘I won’t leave Bangalore immediately,’ Sven-Arne said abruptly. ‘I don’t think the Swede will come back. And it may be a while before he returns to Sweden and talks. He may go to the police, I don’t know, perhaps my… It doesn’t matter. I will stay here a few days, then we will see.’
‘Can’t you talk with this old neighbour? Perhaps convince him to keep quiet?’ Sven-Arne knew that Lester was testing him. If he had made himself guilty of ‘something horrible’ in his homeland, then chances were minimal that Jan Svensk would be willing to forget the whole thing.
‘I think he will tell his family and they will not be able to keep quiet.’
‘And if you ask him to?’
Sven-Arne smiled.
‘Shall we get back to work?’ he said, and felt a sudden surge of joy. He needed the exertion of digging, weeding, watering, and carrying pots in order to keep his thoughts from Sweden and his former life, from the threat of being exposed. This last day had been discombobulating. He had not been able to think clearly, but it was as if his talk with Lester made everything fall into place again. Perhaps he didn’t need to worry? If Jan Svensk was going to announce his ‘find’ in Bangalore when he returned home, who would believe him – the county commissioner as day labourer in an Indian garden? Would anyone take the trouble to travel all the way here in order to check it out?
Sven-Arne Persson decided not to let Svensk trouble him any longer. The humiliation he experienced when he left Lal Bagh need not awaken any need for revenge; instead Jan Svensk might prefer to forget the whole thing. Sven-Arne convinced himself that the Svensk affair was over.
FOURTEEN
Two days later Jan Svensk stood once more at the entrance to the nursery. He was one of the first that morning to have bought a ticket to Lal Bagh. This time he had demanded to get the change. He had nodded at the man in the wheelchair and quickly walked past him without a word.
He walked down the main path with a determined stride, so different from the hesitant steps he took last time, scanning the side paths with radar alertness, rounding a thicket, and there, by the shed out of which Lester had taken an axe, was Sven-Arne Persson sitting on a low, three-legged stool. He was setting the teeth of a saw. He moved the file back and forth across the teeth, paused and tested the sharpness with a finger, then continued with his work.
His long, bony back was bent over, the hair on his neck sparse, a little grey, and sticking out in different directions. Through a tear in the dingy tank top that Sven-Arne Persson was wearing one could see his spine.
It had been a long time since Jan Svensk had seen someone sharpening a saw, in his childhood maybe, at his uncle’s, whose cleverly stacked woodpiles were known all over Järlåsa. For a moment he felt uncomfortable at the idea of interrupting his work, but nonetheless took a couple of steps closer. The sound from the file was mechanical and regular.
‘Hello there, Sven-Arne.’
The filing stopped, the county commissioner stiffened but did not turn.
‘I come with greetings for you.’
Sven-Arne turned his head. The look he gave Jan Svensk was filled with disgust, not fear; pure unfettered loathing, as if his visitor had brought with him a stinking load of something intended for the heap in front of the shed.
‘You recognise me, don’t you? We were neighbours. I have…’ He fell silent, unsure how to proceed.
Sven-Arne put down the file. ‘You should leave,’ he said. ‘It’s not good for you to be here.’
Jan Svensk looked around. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Go. My friends are here. You have no place here, unless you are looking for work. Do you want to dig? Can you dig? Eight hours a day in ninety-degree weather. Not much pay. Can you even begin to-’