He did not regard himself as a particularly ethnocentric being. In theory he had always extolled the virtues of understanding between persons from widely differing parts of the world. He wanted to see the good, the new and exciting, in other people and cultures but was catching himself getting more and more upset at, in his view, the decidedly irrational India.
Why? Those colleagues who had been in Bangalore for a long time floated naturally in this environment and accepted apparently without friction the most bizarre, almost shamefully idiotic behaviours – to his surprise and dismay.
Couldn’t they express their disapproval? He – as a newcomer – couldn’t do it. It would appear insensitive and insulting. Maybe there was a resistance to taking on another tradition and culture. Jan Svensk was bewildered enough after his week in the city. He was attracted by the foreign but at the same time wanted things as cozy as back in Uppsala.
He left the bathroom, closing the door behind him, checked the time, and threw himself onto the bed.
‘Sven-Arne Persson,’ he said out loud, ‘what are you doing in Bangalore?’
He knew he ought to hook up to the Internet and send a couple of emails but remained where he was, staring up at the ceiling, while he thought about Persson, the county commissioner who went up in smoke. He remembered the whole thing very well, especially since the Persson family had lived only one town house down from him and because Sven-Arne’s wife and Jan’s mother were social.
There was some speculation that he had been murdered, but most people were convinced he had killed himself. A goodbye letter had never been found, and his wife was at a complete loss, as he had never shown any signs of depression or anything else that pointed to suicide. The couple’s finances were good and his political career was going swimmingly. There had even been talk about a position in parliament, maybe even a cabinet post.
Then, on a normal business day, during a meeting in City Hall, County Commissioner Persson had excused himself and left the room. Everyone assumed he had to use the restroom or perhaps make an important phone call. The meeting was more or less over, there was nothing of importance left to cover, and no one thought it strange that he left the room.
The meeting was called to an end twenty minutes later, without Persson having returned.
One hour later, Councillor Hellmark of the opposition party had a meeting scheduled with Persson. They were to have tried to reach common ground on some issue, maybe one of the intractable ones that the county was known for.
Persson never turned up. His secretary had no idea where he was. Persson was not known for forgetfulness or nonchalance. The building was searched to no avail, calls were made to his home.
At eight o’clock that evening, the 19th of November, his wife contacted the police. By that point she had called all of his acquaintances, including the Svensk family, as well as the emergency room at the Akademiska Hospital. No one had seen or heard from her husband.
Until now, that is. Exactly twelve years later. Jan Svensk felt a tingle of excitement as he realised the full extent of how unlikely the encounter at the restaurant had been. He did not for one second doubt that it was Sven-Arne Persson. His reaction, the surprise and horror Jan had time to glimpse in his eyes, spoke all too clearly.
What was he doing in India, of all places? How was he supporting himself? Was there a lover in the picture, someone who had convinced him to leave the family, his work, and his country? Had he embezzled funds from the county or the party?
As Jan Svensk lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, and the call to prayer started up its monotone litany, he came to the decision that he was going to get an answer to the Persson riddle. How could he possibly return to Sweden without it? He chuckled to himself. What a sensation it would be. Suddenly he wished he was a journalist. He could see the headline: County Commissioner, Ruled Dead, Found Alive in India.
Of course it was one thing to decide on this investigation, but how to proceed? In a city like Bangalore it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. The old proverb here took on a literal significance. It was a dizzying prospect to think of locating Persson among all these people. Granted, he stood out from the crowd, but right now he was most likely keeping as low a profile as he could muster.
Suddenly the light went out. The only thing illuminating his room was the screen on his laptop, which reminded him of his work.
Jan Svensk heaved himself out of bed, sat down at the computer, opened a report and gave it a once-over, adding a couple of comments, connected to the Internet, and sent it off. At that moment the power came back on.
Thereafter he opened the bottle he had bought at the Arlanda airport, got a glass from the bathroom, poured himself a generous whisky, sat down in the only armchair, and started making his plans.
FIVE
If there was anything that frightened him, it was the thought of having to leave Bangalore for good. Where would he go? He had spun himself a delicate net in which to rest. At the least movement the threads would tear and he would fall down into an old age of poverty, perhaps destitution, and even worse, isolation.
Lester and his family were a thread that gave him a feeling of family life he could take part in. Sven-Arne followed Lester’s children as if they were his own flesh and blood, he took delight in their successes at school and worried about them when they were sick. They celebrated family events together. He could remember the first one, six days after Lilian’s birth. A steady stream of relatives, neighbours, and friends came by the flat, admired the newborn, and presented little gifts.
It was a matter of some notoriety that a foreigner was taking part in the ceremony, and he thought for a while that this was the reason for his presence – that Lester in some way wanted to brag about the fact that he was close to such an exotic personage – but then he realised the invitation was well intended and that Lester genuinely appreciated his attentions for his daughter’s chatthi.
His work at the botanical garden was the other dominant thread. At Lal Bagh, he felt useful, he carried out practical work that meant something. He had been there so long that he could point with pride to the trees he had planted. Some had had time to become tall and offered a welcome shade in summer. Others flowered beautifully. His favourite was the temple tree.
The lessons at the school that was very close to his home was a third thread. For the past five, six years, on a volunteer basis, he had been teaching a group of children English, European history, and what one could call social studies. This took place outside of regular scheduling and had nothing to do with the children’s official educational program, but the four hours a week were always well attended. Some thirty children in their early teens followed his lectures on the breakthrough of industrialisation in Europe, of technical advances and developments in production methods, but also of terrible conditions, child labour, and the budding struggle for human rights, against drunkenness, and for freedom of religion.
He also lectured in geography and after every lecture would congratulate himself on having imprinted the countries of Europe in the heads of his pupils. Most of them could pick out Germany, Italy, Poland, and about twenty other countries on a blank map. He thought it was more than most Swedish children could manage with regard to Asia.
These were the areas he knew – European geography and history – and these were what he confined himself to.
They always concluded with conversational exercises in English. In his youth, Sven-Arne had only attended community college, but in connection with being drawn into county politics and from time to time receiving international visitors and guest researchers who came to the university, he had studied his way through primary and secondary school English.