The Hand that Trembles

FOUR

Each time he stepped into the bathroom he felt as if he were entering a Monty Python sketch. The hotel room was more or less quiet, despite the noise of the traffic, the honking and the recurring high-pitched signal that he always mistook for his mobile phone. But when he opened the door to the bathroom it was like stepping into a roundabout with traffic rushing from every direction. It would not have surprised him if a rickshaw had rushed out between the shower and the toilet in a crazy driving manoeuvre.

Jan Svensk sat in the midst of this tumult, in deep reflection, as he at the same time followed the exertions of an insect ascending the shower curtain. When it tumbled down, rolled over onto its legs, and set its sights on the shower for the third time in a row, he stretched out a foot and crushed it against the floor.

His irritation at the attitude of the waiter, and above all, the maître d’, had subsided. In a way he understood them. They did not know him, whereas Sven-Arne Persson was probably a regular. One protects one’s habitual guests, that is simply a fact. Why should he let this irritate him?

Maybe it was his general frustration at the Indian reality that had so incensed him. He had left Koshy’s in a rage without leaving a single rupee in tip. Now he was ashamed.

Against all odds, he was also constipated. Everyone had assumed something else, but the past two days he had spent several sessions on the traffic-exposed toilet. Now, finally, his own gases mingled with the exhaust that penetrated through the always-opened vent at the very top of the wall. He sighed with relief, but also pure exhaustion, tore long strips from the roll, dried himself with care, and washed his hands three separate times. The natives rarely used paper, from what he could understand, and simply rinsed after their bathroom visits. He wanted to try it, but his upbringing was too conventional. He imagined that it was healthier with only water, gentler on delicate skin, but hesitated to try it.

He did not regard himself as a particularly ethnocentric being. In theory he had always extolled the virtues of understanding between persons from widely differing parts of the world. He wanted to see the good, the new and exciting, in other people and cultures but was catching himself getting more and more upset at, in his view, the decidedly irrational India.

Why? Those colleagues who had been in Bangalore for a long time floated naturally in this environment and accepted apparently without friction the most bizarre, almost shamefully idiotic behaviours – to his surprise and dismay.

Couldn’t they express their disapproval? He – as a newcomer – couldn’t do it. It would appear insensitive and insulting. Maybe there was a resistance to taking on another tradition and culture. Jan Svensk was bewildered enough after his week in the city. He was attracted by the foreign but at the same time wanted things as cozy as back in Uppsala.

He left the bathroom, closing the door behind him, checked the time, and threw himself onto the bed.

‘Sven-Arne Persson,’ he said out loud, ‘what are you doing in Bangalore?’

He knew he ought to hook up to the Internet and send a couple of emails but remained where he was, staring up at the ceiling, while he thought about Persson, the county commissioner who went up in smoke. He remembered the whole thing very well, especially since the Persson family had lived only one town house down from him and because Sven-Arne’s wife and Jan’s mother were social.

There was some speculation that he had been murdered, but most people were convinced he had killed himself. A goodbye letter had never been found, and his wife was at a complete loss, as he had never shown any signs of depression or anything else that pointed to suicide. The couple’s finances were good and his political career was going swimmingly. There had even been talk about a position in parliament, maybe even a cabinet post.

Then, on a normal business day, during a meeting in City Hall, County Commissioner Persson had excused himself and left the room. Everyone assumed he had to use the restroom or perhaps make an important phone call. The meeting was more or less over, there was nothing of importance left to cover, and no one thought it strange that he left the room.

The meeting was called to an end twenty minutes later, without Persson having returned.

One hour later, Councillor Hellmark of the opposition party had a meeting scheduled with Persson. They were to have tried to reach common ground on some issue, maybe one of the intractable ones that the county was known for.

Persson never turned up. His secretary had no idea where he was. Persson was not known for forgetfulness or nonchalance. The building was searched to no avail, calls were made to his home.

At eight o’clock that evening, the 19th of November, his wife contacted the police. By that point she had called all of his acquaintances, including the Svensk family, as well as the emergency room at the Akademiska Hospital. No one had seen or heard from her husband.

Until now, that is. Exactly twelve years later. Jan Svensk felt a tingle of excitement as he realised the full extent of how unlikely the encounter at the restaurant had been. He did not for one second doubt that it was Sven-Arne Persson. His reaction, the surprise and horror Jan had time to glimpse in his eyes, spoke all too clearly.

What was he doing in India, of all places? How was he supporting himself? Was there a lover in the picture, someone who had convinced him to leave the family, his work, and his country? Had he embezzled funds from the county or the party?

As Jan Svensk lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, and the call to prayer started up its monotone litany, he came to the decision that he was going to get an answer to the Persson riddle. How could he possibly return to Sweden without it? He chuckled to himself. What a sensation it would be. Suddenly he wished he was a journalist. He could see the headline: County Commissioner, Ruled Dead, Found Alive in India.

Of course it was one thing to decide on this investigation, but how to proceed? In a city like Bangalore it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. The old proverb here took on a literal significance. It was a dizzying prospect to think of locating Persson among all these people. Granted, he stood out from the crowd, but right now he was most likely keeping as low a profile as he could muster.

Suddenly the light went out. The only thing illuminating his room was the screen on his laptop, which reminded him of his work.

Jan Svensk heaved himself out of bed, sat down at the computer, opened a report and gave it a once-over, adding a couple of comments, connected to the Internet, and sent it off. At that moment the power came back on.

Thereafter he opened the bottle he had bought at the Arlanda airport, got a glass from the bathroom, poured himself a generous whisky, sat down in the only armchair, and started making his plans.