The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden (36 page)
This was the best they could have hoped for. Nombeko suggested that Holger Two contact the government offices right away. Why wait? What did they have to lose?
Two said that his brother and his girlfriend seemed to have an otherworldly ability to ruin everything and that he refused to have too much hope as long as the two of them weren’t locked up somewhere. But by all means. What did they have to lose?
Thus Holger Two called, for the umpteenth time, the current prime minister’s assistant, but on a different matter this time, and – Christ on a bike! – the assistant replied that she would check with the press secretary. Who called back the next day to say that the prime minister would see them at ten o’clock on 28 May for a forty-five-minute interview.
This meant that the interview would take place five days after the second issue of the magazine had come out. They wouldn’t need any more issues after that.
‘Or maybe you’ll keep on with it?’ said Nombeko. ‘I’ve never seen you so happy.’
No, the first issue had cost four million kronor and the others weren’t looking like they’d be any cheaper. They needed the potato money for the life they were, with any luck, on their way to making for themselves. A life where both of them existed, with residence permits and everything.
Holger and Nombeko realized that there was still a lot to do, even after they had managed to bring the atomic bomb to the attention of the man who was in charge of the country they found themselves in. It was not, for example, likely that the prime minister would be happy. And it wasn’t a given that he would be sympathetic towards the situation that had arisen. Or even that he would appreciate Holger’s and Nombeko’s efforts to maintain twenty years of discretion.
But there was a chance. Which there wouldn’t be, if they did nothing.
The second issue was a survey of international matters. Among other things, there was an analysis of the current political situation in the United States, apropos of the prime minister’s meeting with George W. Bush in the White House. And there was a historical retrospective on the genocide in Rwanda, where a million Tutsis were slaughtered because they happened not to be Hutus. The difference between the two groups was said to be that, in general, the Tutsis might have been a bit taller than the Hutus.
Beyond that, there was a flirtation with the prime minister with regard to the impending repeal of the Swedish pharmacy monopoly.
Holger Two and Nombeko went through each and every letter. They couldn’t afford any mistakes. The magazine must still have substance, must still be interesting – but without stepping on the prime minister’s toes.
They couldn’t afford any mistakes. So how could Two have suggested to his dear Nombeko that they should celebrate the completion and distribution of the second issue by going out to a restaurant? Afterwards, he cursed himself to such an extent that he forgot to kill his brother.
For left behind at the editorial offices was Gertrud, who was sleeping in her director’s chair, and Holger and Celestine, who had been assigned the task of taking inventory of the stock of tape, pens and other things. Meanwhile, the finished magazine glowed at them from Two’s computer.
‘They’re out having a good time at a fancy restaurant while we’re sitting here counting paperclips,’ said Celestine.
‘And there’s not a single fucking word about the damn monarchy in this issue, either,’ said Holger One.
‘Or anarchy, for that matter,’ said Celestine.
Apparently Nombeko was of the opinion that she was the sole owner of the money from Gertrud’s potato farm. Who did she think she was? And now she and Two were spending all those millions on kissing the conservative, king-loving prime minister’s arse.
‘Come on, my dear,’ said Holger One, stepping into the forbidden zone around Two’s desk.
He sat down in his brother’s chair and clicked his way to Gertrud’s column on page two. It was some rubbish about the incompetence of the opposition. Written by Two, of course. Holger One couldn’t even stand to read that shit before he deleted it.
As he wrote down what was in his heart at that moment instead, he muttered that, for now, Two could be in charge of sixty-three of the sixty-four pages. But the sixty-fourth page had been coopted.
When he was done, he sent the new version to the printer with a comment to the lead typesetter that an important error in the proof had been corrected.
* * *
On the following Monday, the second issue of
Swedish Politics
was printed and distributed to the same fifteen thousand powerful people as the first issue. The publisher declared, on page two:
It is time for the king – that pig – to abdicate. He must also take with him the queen – that pig. And the crown princess – that pig. As well as the prince and princess – those pigs. And that old hag Lilian.
Monarchy is a form of government only fitting for pigs (and the occasional hag). Sweden must become a republic NOW.
That was all Holger One could think of to write, but since there were still six inches of the two-column space left, he used some software he hadn’t quite mastered to draw a man hanging from a gallows with the word
king
on his chest. He added a speech bubble that came from the man’s mouth. The hanged man didn’t seem to be so hanged that he couldn’t speak. And what he was saying, according to the speech bubble, was . . .
‘Oink.’
As if this weren’t enough and then some, Celestine got in a line at the very bottom:
For more information: contact the Stockholm Anarchists’ Union.
Fifteen minutes after the second issue of
Swedish Politics
was delivered to the government offices, the prime minister’s assistant called with the message that the scheduled interview had been cancelled.
‘Why?’ said Holger Two, who hadn’t yet got his hands on the newly printed magazine.
‘Well, why the hell do you think?’ said the assistant.
* * *
Prime Minister Fredrik Reinfeldt refused to meet the representative of the magazine
Swedish Politics
. And yet he would soon do just that. Plus be saddled with an atomic bomb.
The boy who would eventually become prime minister was the oldest son of three in a family characterized by love, rules and order. Everything in its place; everyone picked up after himself.
This had such an effect on young Fredrik that, as an adult, he had to admit that the most entertaining thing he knew was not politics, but vacuuming. And yet he became a prime minister, not a cleaner. In any case, he had talent for both things. And more.
Among other things, he was elected to chairman of the student council at the young age of eleven. A few years later, he graduated first in his class when he did his military service as a ranger in the Lapland regiment. If the Russians came, they would encounter someone who also knew how to do battle at fifty-four below zero.
But the Russians didn’t come. However, Fredrik came to Stockholm University, where he devoted himself to studying economics, student comedy and keeping his student apartment in military order. Soon he had a bachelor’s degree in economics.
His interest in politics had begun in the home, too. His father was a municipal politician. Fredrik followed in his father’s footsteps. He entered Parliament. He became the chairman of the Young Moderates.
His party was victorious in the 1991 parliamentary election. Young Fredrik wasn’t yet playing a central role; even less so, since he had criticized party leader Bildt for being dictatorial. Bildt was humble enough to prove Reinfeldt right on that count by placing him in the party’s cold-storage room, where he ended up sitting for nearly ten years while Bildt himself travelled to the former Yugoslavia to mediate peace. He thought it was more fun to save the whole world than to fail in saving Sweden.
His successor, Bo Lundgren, was nearly as good at counting as Nombeko was, but because the Swedish people didn’t want to hear numbers alone but also the occasional hopeful word, things went just as badly for him.
With that, it was time for something new in the Moderate Coalition Party. The door to the cold-storage room where Fredrik Reinfeldt sat shivering was opened. He was thawed out and unanimously chosen as the party chairman on 25 October 2003. Less than three years later, he, his party and his non-socialist alliance mopped the floor with Social Democracy. Fredrik Reinfeldt was the prime minister, and he single-handedly cleaned up all the footprints his predecessor Persson had left in the government office. He mainly used green soap to do so, because it creates a dirt-repelling film on the treated surface. When he was done, he washed his hands and ushered in a new era of Swedish politics.
Reinfeldt was proud of what he had achieved. And he was content. For a little while longer.
* * *
Nombeko, Celestine, One, Two and Gertrud were all back at Sjölida. If the atmosphere surrounding the group had been tense before their adventure with
Swedish Politics
, by now it was downright unhealthy. Holger Two refused to speak to his brother, or even to sit at the same table with him. For his part, One felt misunderstood and shoved aside. What’s more, he and Celestine had had a falling-out with the anarchists after that reference to them in the magazine editorial. For most of the political reporters in the nation had obeyed the exhortation, streaming to the anarchists’ headquarters to hear the reasoning behind comparing the royal family to a pigsty.
So now Holger One spent his days sitting in the hayloft, looking down at Gertrud’s potato truck. It still contained a three-megaton atomic bomb. Which would convince the king, one way or another, to abdicate. And which Holger One had promised not to touch.
Just think – he had kept his promise all these years, and yet his brother was angry with him beyond reason. It felt so unfair.
Celestine, in turn, was angry with Two because he was angry with One. She said that Two’s problem was that one couldn’t study one’s way to moral courage – it was something one either had or hadn’t. Two’s brother had it!
Holger Two told Celestine to trip over something and injure herself as badly as possible. He himself was going for a walk.
He took the path down to the lake, sat on the bench on the dock and looked out at the water. He was filled with a feeling of . . . No, he wasn’t filled with anything. He was completely empty.
He had Nombeko, and he was grateful for that. But otherwise: no children, no life, no future. Two thought that he would never, ever get to meet the prime minister: not this one, not the next one and not one of those who would follow. There were still 26,180 years left of the 26,200 it would take for the bomb to lose its efficacy. Plus or minus three months. Maybe it was just as well to stay on the bench on the dock, sitting the time away.
In short, everything was as abysmally terrible as it could be. Thirty minutes before it would get even worse.
On a gala banquet at the palace and contact with the other side
President Hu Jintao began his three-day state visit to Sweden by greeting the replica of the East Indiaman ship
Götheborg
, which had returned that very day to Gothenburg, the city it was named for, after a journey to China and back.
The original had made the same journey 250 years earlier. That time, its adventure had gone well despite storms, pirate waters, illness and starvation. But with half a mile left to go to the home harbour, the ship ran aground in absolutely beautiful weather and eventually sank.
Annoying, to say the least. But revenge was had on Saturday, 9 June 2007. The replica managed to do everything the original had, plus the last half mile.
Götheborg
was greeted by thousands of cheering onlookers, among them the president of China, who took the opportunity to visit the Volvo factory in Torslanda as he was in the area. He himself had insisted on this, and he had his rhymes and reasons.
The fact was, Volvo had been sulking about the Swedish government and its machinery for quite some time, since the state persisted in buying BMWs every time it needed an extra-secure vehicle. Volvo’s upper management was nearly killing itself in exasperation that the Swedish royal family and ministers in the Swedish government would climb out of German cars at each official event. They had even built an armed model and demonstrated it for the security police, but it was no use. It was actually one of the engineers who had come up with the brilliant idea of offering the specially built, cream-coloured prototype of a brand-new Volvo S89 with four-wheel drive and a 315-horsepower, V8 engine to the president of the People’s Republic of China. Worthy of a president any day.
Thought the engineer.
And the Volvo executives.
And – as it turned out – the president in question.
The matter was arranged ahead of time via discreet channels. The car was proudly presented to the president at the factory in Torslanda on Saturday morning, and it would be formally handed over at Arlanda Airport the next day, just prior to the president’s journey home.
In the meantime, he was invited to a gala banquet at the royal palace.
* * *
Nombeko had been sitting in the reading room at the Norrtälje library, going through newspaper after newspaper. She started with
Aftonbladet
, which devoted four pages to the conflict between . . . not Israel and Palestine, but a contestant in a singing contest on TV and a mean judge who had said that the artist in question couldn’t sing.
‘He can go fly a kite,’ retorted the artist, who for one thing really couldn’t sing and for another didn’t really know why kite flying was to be ridiculed.
Newspaper number two for Nombeko was
Dagens Nyheter
, which insisted on writing about important things and whose sales were therefore worse than ever. It was typical for
DN
to lead on its front page with a state visit instead of a fight in a TV studio.
