‘He was a former neighbour of mine,’ he went on. ‘Back then, a long time ago, he was a young man, perhaps twenty, a little wild perhaps but basically a nice guy. Now he looks like the typical sort who comes to Bangalore on business, but it was definitely him.’
‘Did he recognise you?’
‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’
‘Did you speak to each other?’
Sven-Arne picked up the teacup but his hand was shaking so badly that he decided to put it down again.
‘You walked out,’ Lester said.
‘Ran.’
Lester smiled and Sven-Arne thought he knew why. He was not known for his rapid pace – quite the contrary – and his friends at Lal Bagh would tease him about his slow gait, and sometimes called him ‘the snail.’
‘Can this harm you?’
‘I am dead,’ Sven-Arne said.
‘It is not that bad, I hope!’
Lester put his hand on Sven-Arne’s.
‘I am officially dead in Sweden.’
‘You live here.’
‘One is not allowed to be dead in Sweden and at the same time living somewhere else. Sweden wants to keep track of its citizens.’
‘Have you played a trick on Sweden?’
It was a funny question, and it made Sven-Arne smile. Yes, he supposed he had. He had pulled their leg – his wife’s and his old friends’ – and not only them. He had even betrayed the official Sweden, with all its record-keeping obligations and responsibilities. Not in a flamboyant way, but by simply slipping away unnoticed and in secrecy dissolving all ties to the homeland, he had placed himself outside of the order upon which Sweden was grounded, a system he himself had supported and helped develop. In many respects he had personified and been a spokesman for that order. Therefore his escape was a double betrayal. He was not a ‘nobody’, someone who lived on the outskirts of society, who had refused all responsibility.
He had erased his identity, transformed himself into John Mailer, and been swallowed up by the human mass that was India, making himself as anonymous to the kingdom of Sweden as all his newfound Indian friends were. Lester did not exist to Sweden anymore as an Indian, one of at least a billion, so unimportant as to be dispensable, someone one did not have to take into account in the overall social structure.
To this – Lester’s level – was where Sven-Arne had taken refuge. Had become one with those in a sense untouchable. Now Sweden, in the guise of a former neighbour, had caught up with him and he realised that he would not be able to escape so easily. Svensk’s boy was sharp. His father, Rune Svensk, and Sven-Arne were the same age and had been in primary school together, they had played in the neighbourhood and later, many years later, become neighbours.
Jan – that was his name – would never keep quiet.
‘John, my friend.’ Lester interrupted his thoughts and placed his hand on Sven-Arne’s arm. ‘Don’t worry too much about this. You former neighbour may not be sure of himself.’
‘I must leave,’ Sven-Arne said.
‘Where will you go?’
‘It’s better that you don’t know. There are a couple of things I must do first.’
‘What will happen to your youngsters?’
Sven-Arne shook his head almost imperceptibly. He would abandon them, disappear without a word of parting or explanation. What would they think? Fatigue, hunger, thoughts of the school and the friends in the garden caused him to let out a sob.
Lester leant forward across the table. Sven-Arne smelt his onion-heavy breath. Everything is about to be determined, he thought. Everything depends on what he says next. But Lester remained quiet. The sound of the television dampened suddenly and Sven-Arne realised that Lester’s wife must have left the kitchen.
They poured themselves more tea. Sonia supplied a plate of cookies. Only at this sight did Sven-Arne become aware of how ravenous he was. With the intention of dining at Koshy’s he had not eaten anything since breakfast. He ate a couple of cookies, glanced at Lester and met his gaze.
Did Lester sense that it would be a long time before they saw each other again, if ever, that the friendship of many years would end here at a table with two cups of tea and a plate of cookies? Sven-Arne had Lester to thank for many things. He was the one who had put in a good word for him, taken him on as a helper in the garden, and this without asking any questions. ‘Merciful’ was the word that Sven-Arne came to think of. Lester had been merciful. This was a word that had dropped out of common usage and was only used by believers, something he had never been.
He had made a place for Sven-Arne, skillfully bypassing the Indian bureaucracy, and presented it as if Sven-Arne was a middle-aged man who needed a change of scenery for a short while, would only play a visiting role, and then return to his country. But Lester must surely have guessed that day he first saw him that this was a man who would be a lifelong fugitive.
Sven-Arne had never asked why he had been received with such a humble and unquestioning welcome; he knew there could be no rational explanation. This was what Lester was like. He would have been embarrassed to entertain such a question.
It was not a matter of religion. Lester rarely or never participated in ceremonies or services; his empathy was simply there. At first Sven-Arne assumed it was Lester’s half-British background that was the source of his genuine kindness toward the stranger who wanted to help dig. Or else he had been taken aback and decided to test the stranger’s mettle. Sven-Arne would never know for sure, and had long since stopped wondering about Lester’s original motivations. Nowadays he simply warmed himself with the memories of his first stretch of time in Bangalore.
They parted without much ado, shook hands and – after a moment’s bashful silence – gave each other a quick embrace. Sven-Arne asked Lester to hug the children for him and forward his best wishes. Sonia stood quietly by the kitchen door. She was holding a plastic bag with naan and a jar of pickles of the kind she knew Sven-Arne liked. She gave these to him without a word. Sven-Arne took the bag before he headed out the door.
FOUR
Each time he stepped into the bathroom he felt as if he were entering a Monty Python sketch. The hotel room was more or less quiet, despite the noise of the traffic, the honking and the recurring high-pitched signal that he always mistook for his mobile phone. But when he opened the door to the bathroom it was like stepping into a roundabout with traffic rushing from every direction. It would not have surprised him if a rickshaw had rushed out between the shower and the toilet in a crazy driving manoeuvre.
Jan Svensk sat in the midst of this tumult, in deep reflection, as he at the same time followed the exertions of an insect ascending the shower curtain. When it tumbled down, rolled over onto its legs, and set its sights on the shower for the third time in a row, he stretched out a foot and crushed it against the floor.
His irritation at the attitude of the waiter, and above all, the maître d’, had subsided. In a way he understood them. They did not know him, whereas Sven-Arne Persson was probably a regular. One protects one’s habitual guests, that is simply a fact. Why should he let this irritate him?
Maybe it was his general frustration at the Indian reality that had so incensed him. He had left Koshy’s in a rage without leaving a single rupee in tip. Now he was ashamed.
Against all odds, he was also constipated. Everyone had assumed something else, but the past two days he had spent several sessions on the traffic-exposed toilet. Now, finally, his own gases mingled with the exhaust that penetrated through the always-opened vent at the very top of the wall. He sighed with relief, but also pure exhaustion, tore long strips from the roll, dried himself with care, and washed his hands three separate times. The natives rarely used paper, from what he could understand, and simply rinsed after their bathroom visits. He wanted to try it, but his upbringing was too conventional. He imagined that it was healthier with only water, gentler on delicate skin, but hesitated to try it.