The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden (47 page)
Said Celestine.
Nombeko looked intently at her nose. But Holger Two got there first. He put his arm around his girlfriend, thanked them and left.
* * *
The former Agent B was sitting on a bench in Gethsemane, searching for the peace of mind this biblical garden always brought him.
But this time it wasn’t working. The agent realized there was something he had to do. Just one thing. After that, he could leave his former life behind him.
He went home to his apartment, sat down at his computer, logged in via a server in Gibraltar – and sent an anonymous, unencrypted message straight to the Israeli government offices.
The message read,
Ask Prime Minister Reinfeldt about the antelope meat
.
That was all.
Prime Minister Olmert would have his suspicions about where the message had come from. But he would never be able to trace it. Besides, he would never bother to try. B hadn’t been much in anyone’s good graces during the last few years of his career. But his loyalty to the country had never been in question.
* * *
During the big conference on Iraq in Stockholm on 29 May 2008, Israeli Minister of Foreign Affairs Tzipi Livni took Swedish Prime Minister Reinfeldt aside and spent a few seconds looking for the right words, before she said:
‘You know how it is, in positions like ours, Prime Minister. Sometimes you know things you shouldn’t, and sometimes it’s the other way round.’
The prime minister nodded. He thought he knew what the minister of foreign affairs might be getting at.
‘The question I’m about to ask might seem odd. In fact, it’s almost certain that it will, but after much deliberation Prime Minister Olmert and I have decided to ask it anyway.’
‘Please say hello to the prime minister for me. And ask away,’ said Prime Minister Reinfeldt. ‘I’ll answer to the best of my abilities.’
Minister of Foreign Affairs Livni hesitated for a few more seconds, and then she said, ‘Is it possible that the prime minister is aware of twenty pounds of antelope meat that is of interest to the nation of Israel? Once again, I apologize if you find this question odd.’
Prime Minister Reinfeldt gave a forced smile. And then he said that he was well aware of the antelope meat, that it had not tasted good – antelope meat wasn’t one of the prime minister’s favourites – and that it had been dealt with in such a way that no one else would be able to have a taste of it henceforth.
‘If you have any further questions, Mrs Minister, I’m afraid I’ll have to owe you the answers,’ Prime Minister Reinfeldt concluded.
No, Minister of Foreign Affairs Livni didn’t need to ask any more questions. She didn’t share the prime minister’s aversion to antelope meat (vegetarian though she might be) but, then, the important thing for Israel was knowing that the meat hadn’t ended up with the sort of people who lacked respect for international rules pertaining to the import and export of animal products.
‘It’s nice to hear that the good relationship between our nations seems to endure,’ said Prime Minister Reinfeldt.
‘It does,’ said Minister of Foreign Affairs Livni.
* * *
If God does exist, he must have a good sense of humour.
Nombeko had longed to have a baby with Holger Two for twenty years; she had given up hope five years earlier, and she had made it to forty-seven years of age when she realized in July 2008 that she really was pregnant (on the same day that George W. Bush in Washington decided that Nobel Peace Prize winner and ex-president Nelson Mandela could probably be taken off the US list of terrorists).
But the comedy doesn’t end there. Because it soon came to light that the same went for the somewhat younger Celestine.
Holger Two said to Nombeko that the world had done nothing to deserve offspring from Celestine and his brother, no matter what one thought of the world. Nombeko agreed on principle, but she insisted that they continue to focus on themselves and their own happiness as they had been doing, and let the idiots and the one idiot’s grandmother worry about themselves.
And so they did.
Holger Two and Nombeko’s baby came first: they had a daughter in April 2009; she weighed six pounds and five ounces and was utterly beautiful. Nombeko insisted on naming her Henrietta after her paternal grandmother.
Two days later, Celestine gave birth to twins via a planned Caesarean section at a private clinic in Lausanne.
Two nearly identical little babies.
Two boys: Carl and Gustaf.
* * *
After Henrietta was born, Nombeko left her job as an expert on China. She had liked her job, but she felt that there was nothing more to do in that area. The president of the People’s Republic of China could not, for example, be any more satisfied with the Kingdom of Sweden than he already was. He didn’t regret having given Nombeko the lovely Volvo for a second, but because he had liked the car so much, he called his good friend Li Shufu at Zhejiang Geely Holding Group and suggested that Geely buy the whole company. It had actually been Nombeko’s idea from the beginning, when the president thought about it.
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr President,’ said Li Shufu.
‘And then if you could get a good price on an armoured car for your president, I would be more than grateful,’ said Hu Jintao.
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr President,’ said Li Shufu.
* * *
The prime minister was up in the maternity ward to congratulate Nombeko and Holger with a bouquet of flowers. And to thank the former for her extraordinary efforts in her role as expert on China. Just think: she had got President Hu to allow Sweden to finance a professorship in human rights at Beijing University. How she had managed that was beyond the prime minister. And for that matter, the chairman of the EU Commission, José Manuel Barroso, had called Reinfeldt to ask, ‘How the hell did you do that?’
‘Good luck with little Henrietta,’ said the prime minister. ‘And give me a call when you want to start working again. I’m certain we’ll find something for you. Absolutely certain.’
‘I promise I will,’ said Nombeko. ‘I’ll probably be calling soon, because I have the world’s best economist, political scientist and stay-at-home dad by my side. But now it’s time for you to toddle along, Prime Minister. It’s time for Henrietta to eat.’
* * *
On 6 February 2010, Hu Jintao, the president of the People’s Republic of China, landed at Oliver Tambo International outside Johannesburg for a state visit.
He was greeted by Minister of International Relations Nkoana-Mashabane and a number of other potentates. President Hu chose to say a few official words at the airport. He spoke about the common future of China and South Africa, about his confidence in looking forward to strengthened bonds between the two countries, about peace and development in the world, and about a few other things that one could believe if one so chose.
When this was done, an extensive two-day programme awaited the president before he would travel on to Mozambique, the next country on his tour of Africa.
The thing that differentiated his visit to South Africa from those to Cameroon, Liberia, Sudan, Zambia and Namibia in the previous days was that the president insisted upon spending his evening in Pretoria in complete privacy.
Clearly, the host country couldn’t say no to this. So the state visit was paused just before seven o’clock in the evening and resumed at breakfast the next day.
At the stroke of seven, the president was picked up outside his hotel by a black limousine, which took him to Hartfield and the Swedish embassy.
The ambassador herself greeted him at the door, along with her husband and baby.
‘Welcome, Mr President,’ said Nombeko.
‘Thank you, dear Mrs Ambassador,’ said President Hu. ‘It’s about time we got to talk safari memories together.’
‘And a little human rights,’ said Nombeko.
‘Ugh,’ said Hu Jintao, and he kissed Mrs Ambassador’s hand.
Things weren’t as much fun as they had once been at the sanitation department of the City of Johannesburg. For many years, there had been quotas of
blacks
in the organization, and everyone knows what
that
did to the jargon on the job. The illiterates of Soweto, for example, could no longer be called what they were, whether they were that or not.
That terrorist Mandela had finally been released from his prison, and that was bad enough. But then the blacks elected him president, at which point Mandela set about destroying the country with his damned equality for all.
In his thirty years with the department, Piet du Toit had managed to climb all the way up the ladder to the post of deputy director.
But now a new life awaited him. His despotic father had died and left his life’s work to his only son (his mother had been dead for many years). His father was an art collector, and that would probably have been fine if only he hadn’t been so darned conservative. And if he hadn’t consistently refused to listen to his son. There were Renoirs, Rembrandts and the occasional Picasso. There were Monets and Manets. There were Dalís and Leonardo da Vincis.
There were other things, too – and what it all had in common was a minimal increase in value. At least compared to what it would have been if his father hadn’t been so stubborn. Moreover, the old man had acted downright unprofessionally by keeping all that crap hanging on his walls at home instead of in an air-conditioned vault.
Piet du Toit had to wait for ages before he could take over and put it all right, because his father not only didn’t listen, he also refused to die. Not until his ninetieth birthday, when a slice of apple got stuck in his throat, was it finally his son’s turn.
The heir waited until the funeral, but no longer, before he rapidly sold off all his father’s paintings. Since a few minutes ago, the capital had been reinvested in a manner that would have made his father proud if only he’d had any sense. The son was at the Julius Bär bank on Bahnhofstrasse in Zürich, and he had just received confirmation that his entire family fortune, amounting to 8,256,000 Swiss francs, had been transferred to the private account of a Mr Cheng Tao in Shanghai.
What the son was investing in was the future. Because given the rapid development in China, the creation of a middle class and an ever-larger upper class, the value of traditional Chinese art was certain to increase many times over in just a few years.
Via the fantastic Internet, Piet du Toit had found what he was looking for, whereupon he made his way to the Swiss city of Basel and entered into an agreement with Cheng Tao and his three nieces to buy their exclusive stock of Han dynasty pottery. They had certificates of authenticity; Piet du Toit had gone through them with a magnifying glass, and everything was in order. The stupid Chinese didn’t even realize what a goldmine they were sitting on. Why, they were all going to move home to China, along with the nieces’ mother. Move home to China? Instead of enjoying life in Switzerland? This was where Piet du Toit himself felt he belonged, where he didn’t have to be surrounded by illiterate natives day in and day out. Where he could be with like-minded people of the correct race, education and class. Not like that stooping Chink Cheng and his crew. It was a good thing they were going back to that godforsaken corner of the world where they came from. In fact, they’d already left, and that was probably for the best. That way they wouldn’t realize how they’d been fooled.
Piet du Toit had had one of the hundreds of pieces sent to Sotheby’s in London to be valued. This was a requirement of the Swiss insurance company: they weren’t satisfied with the certificates of authenticity alone. The Swiss did sometimes show their bureaucratic side, but when in Rome . . . Anyway, Piet du Toit knew what he knew. He had used his wealth of experience to make sure of the authenticity of the pieces. And then he had made his move without letting in any competitors who would just drive up the price. That was how to do business.
The phone rang. It was the valuer from Sotheby’s. The call had come just when he’d expected it to, down to the second. People with class kept their appointments.
‘Yes, this is Piet du Toit, although I prefer
art dealer
du Toit. What’s that? Am I sitting down? Why the hell does it matter?’
Many, many thanks to my agent Carina, publisher Sofia, and editor Anna for being so good at your jobs.
Just as many thanks to bonus readers Maria, Maud and Uncle Hans. And to Rixon, of course.
Thanks, too, to Professors Lindkvist and Carlsson, as well as Police Inspector Loeffel in Växjö for giving me facts that I later misrepresented in my own way. And to my friend and Africa correspondent Selander, for the same reason.
Hultman in Zürich can very well have thanks, too. And Brissman, even though he’s a Djurgården fan.
Last but not least I want to thank Mum, Dad, Östers IF and Gotland, just for existing.
Jonas Jonasson
The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers
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London W6 8JB
First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate in 2014
First published in the United States by Ecco in 2014
Originally published in Sweden as
Analfabeten som kunde räkna
by Piratforlaget in 2013
Copyright © Jonas Jonasson 2014
Jonas Jonasson asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work
‘Tonight I Can Write’, from
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
by Pablo Neruda, translated by W. S. Merwin, translation copyright © 1969 by W. S. Merwin; used by permission of Jonathan Cape, an imprint of Random House.
Pooh’s Little Instruction Book
inspired by A. A. Milne © 1995 the Trustees of the Pooh Properties, original text and compilation of illustrations; used by permission of Egmont UK Ltd, and by permission of Curtis Brown Ltd.
How to Cure a Fanatic
by Amos Oz; used by permission of Vintage, a division of Random House.