The Hand that Trembles

TWO

Jan Svensk got halfway to his feet, had automatically stretched out a hand as if to detain the fleeing man, but then realised it was meaningless. The doors swung back and forth a few times; he was gone.

It isn’t possible, he thought, frozen for a few moments before he flung himself out of his chair and onto the deafening street. The heat struck him. He stared in all directions and glimpsed a grey head of hair through the filmy plastic window of a rickshaw. The driver set off and the vehicle was swallowed up in the heavy traffic.

He returned inside. The other guests, about a dozen, stared at him with undisguised curiosity. The waiter regarded him quizzically.

‘Is anything wrong, sir?’

Jan Svensk shook his head.

‘I just thought… there was a gentleman…’

‘Oh, you mean “the Polite One”?’

‘You know him?’

The waiter waggled his head, a gesture that Jan Svensk had never really grasped the meaning of. Was it an answer in the affirmative, a ‘no,’ or did it stand for the more diffuse notion of ‘maybe’?

‘Does he come here regularly?’

The waiter glanced around. The maître d’ approached.

‘Who is he?’

‘No one knows, sir.’

The waiter started to draw away from the table, but Svensk grabbed hold of his arm.

‘Does he come here often?’

‘No, not very often.’

They looked at each other. Jan Svensk felt the waiter had the upper hand, perhaps because he was standing. How tall could he be? Five foot four at most, he thought, not without bitterness. He himself was six foot one.

The waiter smiled, straightened his sleeve, and turned his attention to the next table after having delivered another waggle of his head that Jan Svensk interpreted as ‘That is all I know’ or perhaps more precisely, ‘That is all I will tell.’

He resumed his eating, with a lingering feeling of having been unfairly treated. The food was not tasty. It reminded him of excrement, or perhaps it was the other way around. That which he was able to excrete into the hotel toilet retained its original form; a brown, sometimes yellow, stinking mass that dribbled out of him and left a burning sensation. At least it smelt better beforehand, he thought, and swirled his spoon in the bowl of lentils. The consistency was that of a thin porridge.

Could it be Persson? And what was his first name? It was a hyphenated name, something a little nerdy. Sven-Arne, that was it!

Jan Svensk had read about doppelgangers; from time to time one saw published pictures of people who closely resembled each other. Often it was someone from Tierp or Alingsås who looked ridiculously like a film star or other celebrity. Could someone really look that much like Persson? Jan Svensk shook his head.

‘No,’ he murmured, deciding the matter, and looked around for the waiter, who very likely harboured more information, he was sure of it.

The maître d’, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, glided over to his side.

‘Is everything to your satisfaction?’

Or at least this was what Jan Svensk thought he said, and he nodded.

‘I was wondering, that gentleman who came in here… Is he someone you know?’

The maître d’ made a dismissive hand gesture.

‘He has dined here a few times, but we do not know him.’

They are protecting him, Jan thought.

‘He is… an old friend from my homeland.’

‘Really?’ said the maître d’.

He wants money, Jan thought.

‘A friend of the family,’ he went on.

‘I am sorry you did not have a chance to talk to each other.’

You old bastard! You know who he is. The maître d’ disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. Svensk turned his head and saw him exchange a few words with the waiter.

Svensk waved his arm and the waiter approached.

‘The bill, please.’

The waiter returned with it after ten minutes. Jan Svensk gave him around 500 rupees.

The waiter looked at the bills.

‘It is too much,’ he said, and opened the brown leather folder that held the bill.

The total came to 420 rupees.

‘The rest is for you,’ Jan Svensk said.

The waiter put one bill back on the table.

‘It is enough, thank you.’

Then he smiled. Jan Svensk became bright red in the face.

‘I thought…’

‘I understand, sir,’ the waiter said slowly, ‘but like our guests, we have our dignity. I do hope the food was to your liking.’