The Hand that Trembles (5 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

Class after class went through his lectures and discussions. Young people who had graduated several years ago could stop him on the street, still with an embarrassing amount of respect, and tell him how much they appreciated his teachings. Sometimes he was moved to tears by their kindness.

Through these young people, he even gained a place in the world of their parents. He became known throughout the area and was received with goodwill in the small shops in his neighbourhood.

He was a volunteer teacher not only for the sake of the children. He did it as much for himself. Something of the skills he had gained in his old life could be drawn upon in the planning of the lessons and in the actual instruction. He always tried to encourage discussion in his classroom, inviting the students to articulate a point and to use their imagination. He was not always successful in this. Even in this sense, he recognised situations from political life in Uppsala.

Perhaps he also taught in order to assuage his bad conscience. He had chosen not to delve deeper into this, just acknowledge that he was privileged. He had chosen a simple life. Planting trees and bushes placed him far down on the social scale. He observed almost daily the surprise of the more well-to-do Indians who came to Lal Bagh. They would stare unabashedly at the white man who was dressed like a Dalit or Untouchable, bare feet in rough sandals, dirty, with calloused hands, engaged in highly unusual behaviour: He was doing the dirty work, the heavy, manual, poorly paid labour. This was somewhat of a shock to the middle-class population. They took him for a fool, a failure, who perhaps had come to India to seek God but had found a spade. They pointed, they laughed at him, and thereby felt themselves somewhat elevated.

Some of them spoke to him and found to their astonishment a well-versed man who spoke good English, frequently even better than themselves, and who explained his position with a smile – how he had freely taken on the work of gardening because he wanted to make a contribution – but who painstakingly avoided mentioning anything about his background. Sometimes it sparked respect; there was something Ghandian about the gaunt man that was appealing to a faithful Hindu. But mostly it brought him ridicule.

These threads, the contact with Lester and his family, his contributions as volunteer teacher, and his work in the botanical garden, constituted the safety net of Sven-Arne Persson, former county commissioner. The net that transformed the officially deceased county commissioner into a living being.

Now all this was threatened. An unlikely encounter had brought two Uppsala citizens together.

Suddenly it occurred to him that this might not be a coincidence at all. Was there a possibility that Jan Svensk had in some way been informed of his whereabouts? Had he been sent out from Sweden for this purpose? What was his profession? Could he actually be a police officer? Sven-Arne had no idea. If he was, he was the right person to send to Bangalore as a spy, old neighbours that they were. If this was the case, then there was every likelihood he was working with the Indian police, and then the situation was even more precarious.