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

Kenya

The disillusioned agent sat on the porch of the tent she had been assigned at the camp where Meitkini was a guide. She was experiencing some inner turmoil, and she still couldn’t sleep. Instead she greeted the dawn in solitude. The tents were scattered across the hillsides of the verdant valley of savannah and bush that belonged to the camp. Just two hundred metres further down there was an expansive watering-hole. After sunrise, a pair of dik-diks came to slake their thirst, but had to slink away to make room for a herd of elephants. The silence in the valley was magnificent. Like in Germany, thought Agent Langer, and yet so different.

The peace was broken by Allan and Julius, who came plodding along the path from the camp lounge. With dawn, the wild animals stopped hunting for prey, so it was safe to go for a walk.

‘Good morning, Madame Agent. Sleep well?’ Allan enquired.

‘We brought breakfast, if you’d like some,’ Julius said, holding up the tray he was carrying.

Madame Agent? Well, okay, she had revealed herself. And Karlsson hadn’t been discreet about what he knew.

‘Yes, thanks,’ Agent Langer lied. ‘I slept well. And I wouldn’t mind some breakfast. Please, sit down.’

The woman and the two men shared coffee, fried eggs and papaya from the camp’s own garden as they sat down to talk about the future. All while the cool dawn turned into a decently warm day, there at an altitude of about two thousand metres, just south of the equator.

Allan had brought his black tablet and said he would be happy to share whatever he might discover on it. In which case he would skip how many people had drowned in the Mediterranean since last time because Julius was tired of hearing about that.

Julius asked Allan not to torment the agent as he had tormented Julius and Sabine for far too long already, but the agent nodded politely. It might be pleasant to hear what was going on beyond the savannah and bush. Had the Supreme Leader in the east come up with any new nonsense?

Surely he had, Allan imagined, but nothing that had reached the tablet. He would like to offer something a little different, if it was of interest.

‘No!’ said Julius, as Allan continued.

At home in old Sweden, the Transport Agency had purposely sent its entire database to a company in Eastern Europe, contrary to the recommendation of the Security Service. They had outsourced the handling of secure information about fighter pilots and government agents. Now the newspapers were revealing that the director of the agency faced being fired and receiving seventy thousand kronor in fines and at least four million in severance pay.

‘Let me guess, Agent Langer, you have no colleagues stationed in Sweden. I can’t imagine that would be necessary,’ said Allan. ‘Up there, we have no secrets from each other or anyone else.’

Allan noticed that Julius was sulking in his corner. Because of a piece of news? Surely he could tolerate a little bit.

Trump was still Trump, it seemed, while Saudi Arabia seemed to be in free-fall towards Western decadence. Not only would women be given the right to drive, but now both men and women would be allowed to go to the movies for the first time since 1983. Maybe before the dust settled they would also be able to have a drink and feel normal.

When Allan received no response to his ponderings, even as Julius remained sulky, he changed the subject. ‘Maybe this will cheer you up, Julle.’ And he told them about the Ghanaian football referee who had just been banned for life after giving South Africa a penalty in a match when a poor Senegalese player happened to be hit with a ball in the knee.

Julius still hadn’t reacted (aside from a comment about how his name wasn’t Julle), in contrast to the German agent.

‘Isn’t hitting the ball with your knee allowed?’ wondered the woman who had spent her whole life avoiding sports as entertainment. Or entertainment in general, now that she thought about it.

‘Right, that’s the point. But FIFA – which is famous for its corruption, by the way – felt that the referee was corrupt. So now the match is to be replayed.’

Ongoing sour face from his friend on the sofa. There was only one thing left to try. In sports talk, it was called putting the ball in Julius’s court.

‘From one thing to the next: might you have any relationship with asparagus, Madame Agent?’

This was a question Agent Langer had not seen coming.

‘Asparagus?’ she said. ‘I have a long-standing, rather close and very good relationship with asparagus. My grandfather was born and raised in Schwetzingen.’

‘Schwetzingen,’ said Allan. ‘Sounds like some sort of mixer.’

Agent Langer said that those in Schwetzingen might certainly have a drink or two, and even a third before the night was over, yet the name of the city had nothing to do with alcohol but rather with asparagus.

‘Tell me more!’ said Julius, sitting up straight.

‘Welcome back,’ said Allan.

It turned out that Fredrika Langer had a lifelong love of asparagus – the white kind, but still. Her grandfather, Günther, had been one of the premier asparagus farmers in Schwetzingen in his day. He had crawled around in the sandy earth and seemed to be in close personal contact with each individual plant. And at home, with her grandmother, Matilda, he had created fabulous meals out of that white gold. Starters, main courses and even desserts!

‘White?’ said Julius. ‘Isn’t real asparagus green?’

This was the only thing he and Gustav Svensson had argued about in Bali. The Swedish-Indian had insisted they should diversify their operations, that 20 per cent of the plants should produce a white harvest rather than a green one.

Agent Langer smiled for what had to be the first time in a year. ‘With all due respect, Mr Jonsson, I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.’

Meitkini’s safari customers arrived as planned and were given a proper welcome by their guide. The Swedes and the German would have to manage as best they could for a few days.

Allan spent these days on the big veranda by the lounge, with a view of the verdant valley and the watering-hole, where there was fresh drama to watch just about constantly. After the dik-diks came the elephants, and when they had finished, the lion woke. A lone rhinoceros also made regular visits. And the giraffes, which were so poorly constructed that they had to do the splits in order to take a drink.

The hundred-and-one-year-old felt content with just about everything. The view, of course. The drinks young John at the bar delivered without even being asked. And John’s technical abilities! Just think: if you linked the tablet to something called a ‘network’, news from all corners of the world popped up five times faster. The same news, to be sure, but still.

Sabine preferred to sit further inside the lounge, so that her concentration was not continually disturbed by Allan’s many stories. She was devising various plans for bringing clairvoyance into a mass-meeting project, according to the principle ‘Better to cheat ten thousand participants out of a few dollars each than to get three hundred dollars out of one.’ And with a strong preference for leaving God out of it.

‘Mass clairvoyance,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘On Wednesday at eleven o’clock we’ll link ourselves up with Elvis. Ten-dollar admission fee. Twenty for a personal question.’

No, that was no good. What if she added a tea that would open up the participants’ minds? Secret tea? Maybe a little LSD in it to give their reputation a real boost…

‘How’s it going?’ Allan wondered, from a short distance.

‘Don’t bother me!’ Sabine responded.

Not too well, she thought.

Julius and Agent Langer mostly stuck to the other side of the lounge, with a view of the camp’s organic garden. They were in agreement that the climate there, at an altitude of two thousand metres, certainly seemed suitable for asparagus. But the same wasn’t true of the iron-rich red earth. Julius said that white crap-sparagus could probably be grown in just about anything, but the green kind required a fine, sandy soil. Agent Langer countered, saying that the white kind required the same, but it hardly mattered what sort of soil one grew the green stuff in: it would still be inedible.

The two asparagus-lovers generally got on well, aside from the part about green versus white.

Arrogant Agent A called, interfering. He reported that, in cooperation with the BND-payrolled chief of border patrol and eighty of his men, an invisible wall had been constructed between Tanzania and Mozambique. It was only a question of time before the smugglers drove into it. ‘Pity you’re not here. I’ll get all the praise.’

The formerly so meek Agent B had been energized by her new asparagus relations. Enough, anyway, to wish all bad things upon her boss. ‘So lovely for you,’ she said. ‘If the uranium slips through anyway, I’m sure it will be possible to make it all my fault, don’t you think?’

Lead Agent A wasn’t used to B arguing with him. ‘Now, don’t be upset just because you didn’t have the sense to be in the right place. How’s it going with Karlsson? Have you found him yet?’

‘No,’ Agent B lied. ‘But I did get stuck on the savannah in the car I rented. In a few days I can get help to tow it out of a stream.’

Lead Agent A chuckled. ‘Funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. So you’ll be staying up there.’ He told her that Honour and Strength was, according to reports, still heading for the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Agulhas and – in all certainty – the southern tip of Madagascar. That meant the smuggled uranium would be crossing the border between Tanzania and Mozambique any day now. ‘And then I suppose I’ll have no choice but to call the chancellor myself and tell her the news,’ said A.

Communicating it via the holidaying director of the BND, as instructed, would not give the proper boost to his career.

Agent Langer returned to Julius in the lounge. She noted that, in his company, she experienced something similar to a zest for life.

‘Hello, my misguided asparagus friend, may I join you?’ She smiled as she said it. It was an affectionate battle, this clash between green and white.

Julius responded, ‘Hello yourself, colour-blind one. Have a seat.’