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

Sweden

‘And what has Trump done since last time?’ Julius started off the next day’s breakfast.

It was time to leave: a hundred and fifty kilometres to Malmö. Where they would stay once they arrived remained to be seen. One thing at a time. On that note, Julius thought if they got Allan’s news from the black tablet over with now, they might get out of there and to the point much quicker.

‘Glad you asked,’ said Allan. ‘And I’d thought we could skip that for today, considering the difficult situation we’re in. But, of course, a thing or two did happen while we were sleeping, or whatever you two were doing instead. I thought I heard something through the wall.’

‘Get to the point,’ said Sabine.

Right, Trump. He had appointed a new communications director, who immediately communicated that he intended to fire everyone around him, at which point he himself was dismissed.

‘Thanks for the update,’ said Julius, ‘so shall we—’

‘Hold on! I only told you that for context. They say the man behind the president’s fire-as-many-people-as-possible-in-as-little-time-as-possible strategy is our friend Bannon.’

‘Our friend who?’

‘Steve Bannon. The chief strategist. The surly red-faced man who met us at the airport in New York.’

‘Oh, that was his name. I didn’t know he’s the president’s chief strategist.’

‘Well, he’s not. Not any more.’

Malmö was getting closer and closer. Julius had dozed off in the passenger seat. Allan was snoozing in the coffin, always ready to play dead should the need arise. Sabine was alone with her thoughts. She wasn’t happy about starting a new business in Sweden, the country where they’d managed to rile a Nazi. A foreign country would be safer. But which one? It wasn’t enough just to make contact with someone on the other side: she would also need to understand what they said. Plus it was uncertain how economically viable this might be.

Which brought her back to her original thought.

Olekorinko. The witch doctor. Or mganga, in the local language. The man her mother Gertrud had spoken of so often. With a business model unlike any other.

In Africa.

Shit, shit, shit.

She’d sworn inaudibly. But Julius heard the silence and woke up. ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

She saw no other solution than to follow the path and the Facebook campaign Allan and Julius had already prepared, where Sabine’s abilities would be advertised as ‘Medium Esmeralda’, based in Malmö – six hundred kilometres from the angry Nazi in Stockholm, but just one bridge from the gigantic Copenhagen market.

It’s not easy to find a business location when you’re living under the radar. Or, for that matter, a place to live. Their solution was to expose Julius to a certain amount of risk: he was the only one of the group who didn’t appear in any registry of firms. There were empty rental apartments scattered around the area, among others a two-bedroom place in southern Rosengård for just over six thousand kronor per month, only seven kilometres from central Malmö. It wasn’t the most attractive part of the city, but for that very reason it was a good option for the friends. Buying a centrally located place for three or four million was, of course, out of the question.

Julius was dropped off outside the offices of the public housing authority (which, unlike the available apartment, was not in Rosengård) to express their interest.

And, to his surprise, he got a no.

‘We have rules,’ said the representative of the authority, a woman in her forties.

‘And what are those rules?’ asked Julius, who, as a rule, hated rules.

‘Well, as I understand it, you are unable to provide a current address or steady income, and that makes things difficult.’

Julius looked at her. ‘When it comes to a current address, that’s what I’m currently trying to obtain. I can’t exactly report myself as living in one of your apartments until I have access to it, can I?’

‘That’s true,’ said the woman. ‘But your age leads me to suspect that you may have lived somewhere else previously but that is not evident from the form you filled in and there are no hits when I search your name in the system.’

This country! Couldn’t anything be kept private? Was he even allowed to choose a toothpaste on his own? But he didn’t say this.

‘Young lady,’ he said instead. ‘As a diplomat in the service of the Department for Foreign Affairs, I have not had an address in Sweden since the Cuban Missile Crisis. I have struggled on many occasions with extreme homesickness. But never have I felt it as strongly as now, when a municipal authority turns its back on me in this manner.’

And then he placed his Swedish diplomatic passport on the table.

The woman looked at it. Then opened it. At first, she said nothing. Then: ‘And a steady income? You must understand, sir, that—’

‘Naturally I have not taken an income in Sweden,’ said Julius, who felt that he was really getting into the swing of it. ‘Please search for me in the Bank of Investments in the Seychelles, and I’m sure you will find what you’re after.’

Fortunately for Julius, the woman capitulated at once. He had made up the name of the bank, and he couldn’t have spelled ‘Seychelles’ if she’d asked.

‘I believe I understand the dilemma, sir,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Please hurry, I’m jetlagged,’ said Julius. ‘Just back from a quick trip to the Swedish embassy in New York. I mean Washington.’

She spoke with her boss for under a minute. However odd it was for a diplomat to wish to reside in Rosengård, the housing authority would welcome him. Furthermore, it was a feather in their cap.

‘We’ve decided to overlook the fact that you can’t provide proof of income, Mr Diplomat. You’re welcome to rent the unit in question for three months’ advance rent. That’s not too much, I hope?’

The two-bedroom apartment was on the first floor of a five-storey building. One room for Allan, one for Julius and Sabine, a kitchen, and a living room that would function as a location for séances and spiritual exercises. They bought furniture second-hand; it took two full hearse-loads before everything was at home. Prior to this, Julius and Sabine had carried the white coffin with red roses into the apartment, under cover of darkness.

‘It looks nice in the séance room,’ Sabine said, pleased.

‘I can’t decide where I want to sleep,’ said Allan. ‘There are blinds in my room, but on the other hand I’ll miss the coffin. Then again, I can always close the lid…’

‘You will sleep in the bed we bought for you,’ said Sabine. ‘With the door closed.’