The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

Sweden

It was already night-time when Johnny Engvall arrived at Klipphällen Pension. There was no hearse parked outside; he was too late.

The manager of the pension, who had not, in fact, died at the séance table, was in the kitchen cooking a new batch of pea soup when she received a surprise visitor.

The Nazi made an effort not to scare the old woman too much. Before he squeezed what she knew out of her, he would try to get her to tell him voluntarily.

‘Good day to you!’ he said, hating himself for his pleasant tone.

‘Good day to you,’ said Mrs Lundblad. ‘Are we looking for a place to spend the night?’

Pea soup was Johnny’s favourite. It was delicious, Swedish, and authentic. Especially with some mustard on the edge of the bowl, a piece of knäckebröd, and a big glass of milk.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘And perhaps even a bit of food?’

Mrs Lundblad invited him to the table. The soup was almost ready. As she set two places, she said she was happy to have company, for she’d had a perfectly horrible day, she would like her guest to know.

And she told him the tale. Johnny didn’t even have to ask.

Three horrid people – with a hearse! – had arrived the day before. Just a few hours before the young gentleman arrived they had invited her to a séance, offering her the chance to speak with her dead husband. It had all gone well, but when she happened to faint with the excitement those louts had taken off. It was so unchristian as to be beyond words.

Johnny really wanted to ask straight away whether she knew where they had gone, but something else took precedence.

‘A séance?’ he said. ‘Did you really speak with your husband, ma’am?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s happy up there in heaven, I now know. And imagine! He’s stopped smoking. My darling, clever Börje stopped smoking!’

For the second time, the Nazi was struck by the thought, as absurd as it was wonderful, that he might be able to contact Kenneth on the other side. This time it took longer to put out of his mind.

The soup was marvellous. And the old woman had probably been blonde before her hair turned white, which only made it that much better.

‘You’re a fantastic cook, I must say. Tell me, do you know where those horrible people went?’

No, of course the old woman didn’t know. She had been unconscious when they left.

‘I understand. Did they take anything? Did they leave anything?’

No, apparently they weren’t thieves. The only trace of them was a note left on the counter. She handed over a sheet of A4. It read:

Malmö!

That was where they were going.

‘Would the delightful gentleman like seconds?’ asked the old woman.

‘No, I wouldn’t, you old bitch,’ said Johnny Engvall, and left.

That last bit felt good.