Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All. Jonas Jonasson

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      But from 1955, the traitorous farmers began to exchange Grandfather’s cold- and warmbloods for tractors at a rate that Grandfather refused to comprehend. Seven thousand transactions became seven hundred, which became seventy, which became seven. Within five years, the family’s multi-million-krona fortune had gone up in a cloud of diesel smoke. In 1960, the as-yet-unborn grandson’s dad tried to save what he could by travelling around to all the farmers in the region and preaching on the curse of mechanization. After all, there were so many rumours flying about. Such as how diesel fuel would cause cancer if it got on your skin and, of course, get on your skin it did.

      And then Dad added that studies showed diesel could cause sterility in men. But he really shouldn’t have mentioned that. For one thing, it wasn’t true, and for another, it sounded perfectly lovely to breadwinning but continuously horny farmers with three to eight children each. It was embarrassing to try to get your hands on condoms, not so for a Massey Ferguson or John Deere.

      His grandfather had died not only destitute but kicked to death by his last horse. His grieving, horseless son took up the reins, completed some sort of course, and was soon employed by Facit AB, one of the world’s leading companies in the production of typewriters and mechanical calculators. Thus he succeeded in being trampled by the future not once but twice in his lifetime, because suddenly the electronic calculator popped up on the market. As if to poke fun at Facit’s brick of a product, the Japanese version fitted the inner pocket of a jacket.

      The Facit group’s machines didn’t shrink (at least, not fast enough), but the firm itself did, until it shrivelled up into absolutely nothing.

      The son of the horse dealer was laid off. To repress the fact that he had been twice cheated by life, he took to the bottle. Unemployed, bitter, always unbathed and never sober, he soon lost all his power of attraction in the eyes of his twenty-years-younger wife, who managed to stick it out for a little while, then another little while. But eventually it occurred to the patient young woman that the mistake of marrying the wrong man was possible to undo. ‘I want a divorce,’ she said one morning, to her husband, as he walked around their apartment, looking for something while clad in white underpants covered with dark stains.

      ‘Have you seen the bottle of cognac?’ said her husband.

      ‘No. But I want a divorce.’

      ‘I put it on the counter last night. You must have moved it.’

      ‘It’s possible it ended up in the drinks cabinet when I was cleaning the kitchen, I don’t remember, but I’m trying to tell you I want a divorce.’

      ‘In the drinks cabinet? Of course, I should have looked there first. How silly of me. So are you moving out? And you’re going to take the thing that just craps its pants with you, right?’

      Yes, she took the baby. A boy with pale blond hair and kind blue eyes. The boy who would, much later, be a receptionist.

      For her part, the boy’s mother had imagined a career as a language teacher, but the baby happened to arrive fifteen minutes before her final exam. Now she moved to Stockholm with her little one, plus her belongings and the signed divorce papers. She went back to using her maiden name, Persson, without reflecting upon the consequences for the boy, who had already been given the name Per (not that it’s impossible to be named Per Persson or, for that matter, Jonas Jonasson, but some might find it monotonous).

      Awaiting her in the capital city was a job as a traffic warden. Per Persson’s mom walked up one street and down the next, receiving near-daily harangues from illegally parked men, primarily those who could easily afford the fines they had just been saddled with. Her dream of being a teacher – of imparting the knowledge of which German prepositions governed the accusative or dative to students who couldn’t care less – was interrupted.

      But after his mom had spent half an eternity in a career that was meant to be temporary, it so happened that one of the many haranguing illegally parked men lost his train of thought in the midst of his complaint when he discovered that the person inside the traffic warden’s uniform was a woman. One thing led to another, and they found themselves having dinner at a fancy restaurant, where the parking ticket was ripped in two around the time they partook of their coffee with a little something on the side. By the time the second thing had led to a third, the illegal parker had proposed to Per Persson’s mom.

      The suitor happened to be an Icelandic banker about to move home to Reykjavik. He promised his wife-to-be the moon and the stars if she followed him there. He would offer an Icelandic arm to welcome her son as well. But time had passed to such an extent that the little blond boy had become a legal adult and could make his own decisions. He counted on a brighter future in Sweden, and since no one can compare what happened after that with what might have happened instead, it is impossible to determine how right or wrong the son was in his calculations.

      At just sixteen years old, Per Persson got himself a job alongside the studies he wasn’t very engaged in. He never told his mother in detail what his work consisted of. And for that he had his reasons.

      ‘Where you going now, boy?’ his mom might ask.

      ‘To work, Mom.’

      ‘So late?’

      ‘Yes, we’re open for business most of the time.’

      ‘What is it you do again?’

      ‘I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m an assistant in … the entertainment industry. Where people have meetings and stuff like that.’

      ‘What kind of assistant? And what is the name of—’

      ‘Have to run now, Mom. See you later.’

      Per Persson slipped away yet again. Of course he didn’t want to share any details, such as the fact that his employer packaged and sold temporary love in a large shabby yellow wooden building in Huddinge, south of Stockholm. Or that the establishment went by the name Club Amore. Or that the boy’s work involved handling logistics as well as acting as an attendant and inspector. It was important that each individual visitor find his way to the right room for the right sort of love for the right amount of time. The boy made up the schedule, timed the visits and listened through the doors (and let his imagination run free). If something seemed about to go awry, he sounded the alarm.

      Around the time his mom emigrated and Per Persson finished his studies – in the formal sense as well – his employer chose to start a new line of business. Club Amore became Pensionat Sjöudden: the Sea Point Hotel. It was not by the sea, or on any point. But as the owner of the hotel said, ‘I gotta call this shithole something.’

      Fourteen rooms. Two hundred and twenty-five kronor per night. Shared toilet and shower. New sheets and towels once a week, but only if the used ones looked used enough. Going from running a love nest to running a third-class hotel was not something the hotel owner truly desired. He had earned significantly more money when the guests had had company in their beds. And if any free time popped up in the girls’ schedules, he himself could cuddle up with one for a while.

      The only advantage of the Sea Point Hotel was that it was less illegal. The former sex-club owner had spent eight months in the slammer; he thought that was more than enough.

      Per Persson, who had demonstrated his talent for logistics, was offered the job of receptionist, and he thought things could be worse (even if the salary couldn’t). He was to check people in and out, make sure the guests paid, and keep an eye on bookings and СКАЧАТЬ