“So?” said the cheeky man.
“Well, that book doesn’t say much about how to conduct oneself, aside from not eating forbidden fruit, although both Adam and Eve did so after encouragement from a talking snake. One might think that sounds a bit peculiar, but the Lord can do just about anything.”
“A talking snake?” said the now more confused than cheeky man (who, in contrast to his wife, had never opened a Bible).
“Yes. He could listen as well, that snake, and Heavens, what a scolding that devil got from God. That’s why he crawls around in the dirt to this day. The snake, that is, not God.”
“What is all this? What are you getting at, Pastor?” wondered the ever less cheeky but increasingly confused man.
What the priest was trying to get at, above all, was an off-balance cheeky man—and so far, so good. Now she appeared to be considering her words for a second or two before continuing, in a slightly quieter voice, to say that the power in Pastor Anders’s words might know no bounds. Perhaps it was too much to hope that Jesus Christ himself would appear during the sermon, but in case it did happen, it would be just terrible if someone were to attack him. It was also conceivable, of course, that he would send one of his apostles, perhaps not Judas Iscariot as a first choice, but there were eleven more to choose from. The long and the short of it was that no one could be certain which powers the pastor might unleash, starting today. Hence the security arrangements.
“But we would never force anyone to meet the pastor. We would never force anyone to meet Jesus Christ or his apostles. Everything that is about to happen will probably end up in the newspaper tomorrow anyway, so you won’t miss anything. Would you like me to show you out?”
No, the formerly cheeky man supposed he would not, and his wife certainly wouldn’t. She gripped his arm firmly and said, “Come on, Tage, let’s go inside before the seats fill up.”
Tage allowed himself to be led in, but he had the presence of mind to let the unpleasant security guard know that he and his wife had in fact been driving an Opel Corsa for the past two years.
Hitman Anders’s task was to talk about generosity, generosity, and generosity. And on top of that, a dollop of Jesus and then some more generosity. Other catchphrases included this thing about how it was more blessed to give than to receive, that Heaven awaited he who emptied his wallet into the collection plate, and that this same Heaven could not be totally ruled out for he who opened his wallet just a crack (in line with the principle that “every little bit helps”).
“And try to keep a lid on your Hallelujahs, Hosannas, and other things you don’t understand,” said the priest.
But Hitman Anders was feeling nervous now that everything was coming to a head. If he were to keep a lid on everything he didn’t quite understand, it was unlikely much would get said. He asked if an alternative might be to recite the scientific names of mushrooms, in case of emergency, because that might sound very religious to someone who wasn’t totally in the know. And, as proof, he demonstrated: “Cantharellus cibarius, Agaricus arvensis, Tuber magnatum . . . in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”
“What is he saying?” wondered the receptionist, who had just entered the room.
“I’m not sure, but I think he just worshipped the chanterelle, the horse mushroom, and possibly the truffle,” the priest said, then turned back to the hitman and forbade him to go anywhere near what he’d just said, much less anywhere near the toadstool, whatever that might be called.
“Amanita muscaria,” Hitman Anders managed before he was interrupted.
The priest told him that this was no time to lose confidence (while simultaneously thinking that “toadstool” in Latin actually sounded better than a misplaced Hosanna). “Keep in mind that you’re a national hero, the next Elvis,” she said, as she filled the communion vessel she had found the day before in an eighteenth-century cabinet, which might itself be worth more than the entire rest of the church.
The same cabinet, as it happened, also contained a box of wafers, which she guessed would taste rather dusty. The priest offered the body of Jesus to Hitman Anders to complement the wine, but the pastor, who was already in the process of emptying the vessel he’d just got his hands on, preferred a second round of blood instead. He had already hidden a bag of cinnamon rolls in the pulpit in case he should suddenly need some body during the sermon.
CHAPTER 39
An unparalleled cheer and thunderous applause greeted Hitman Anders when he made his entrance. He waved to the right, he waved to the left, and he waved straight ahead. And then he waved again with both arms until the audience had calmed down a bit.
“Hallelujah!” was the first thing he said.
Another cheer went up.
“Hosanna!” Hitman Anders continued, at which point the priest, in the wings, whispered into the receptionist’s ear that soon the toadstools would be all he had left.
But the pastor moved on to a different track: “Generosity, generosity, generosity!” he said.
“That’s progress,” said the priest.
As two hired classes of students from Mälar Upper Secondary School dashed about with moneyboxes in and outside the church, Hitman Anders continued his sermon. “The blood and body of Christ!” he said, and applause broke out again.
“‘Body and blood’ is the more formal order,” the priest whispered to her receptionist. “But to each his own.”
“As long as he doesn’t take out the cinnamon rolls,” the receptionist responded.
Thus far, the pastor had not offered a word about his own story, about his new purpose in life. Thus far, he hadn’t uttered a single coherent sentence. But to the surprise of the priest and the receptionist, it seemed he didn’t need to. They were treating Hitman Anders like he was . . . well, Elvis.
Presently he fished out a Post-it and placed it in front of himself. He had found something of extraordinary value during his Bible studies in the camper. “As Paul once wrote to Timothy: ‘No longer drink only water, but take a little wine for the sake of your stomach.’”
The receptionist smacked his forehead. The priest was mortified. What else did the fool have on his list?
This time the cheering was mixed with laughter and smiling. But the reactions still seemed affectionate. The atmosphere in the church was only improving.
The priest and the receptionist were standing behind a curtained area just to the left of the pulpit, and from there they were able to study the congregation without being seen. The young people from Mälar Upper Secondary School were rushing along the rows of pews. Almost all of the visitors had a coin to give, but didn’t it look like . . . ?
“Is it my imagination,” said the receptionist to his priest, “or are those who are happiest also giving the most?”
The priest gazed out at the sea of people as Hitman Anders continued to speak with the aid of his very own notes: “Even the prophet Habakkuk set his sights on wine. Funny name, isn’t it? Anyway, as it says in Scripture, ‘Drink thou also, and let thy foreskin be uncovered. The cup of the Lord’s right hand shall be turned unto thee.’”
This quotation was taken completely out of context, but it had the effect of making the mood even more festive. And the priest could see that the receptionist was right. The moneyboxes weren’t big enough, so some of the students were walking around with buckets, and someone had even put his entire wallet into one!
The priest seldom cursed. In this, she took after her father the parish priest. He used foul language very occasionally, and on those occasions it was always aimed at his daughter. Except on Sunday, in the hours leading up to church services. Then the parish priest would awaken, sit up in bed, stick his feet into the slippers his wife always made sure to place in the perfect spot, realize that it was Sunday, and summarize the day even before it started: “Well, shit.”
So it’s noteworthy that the priest said what she did when she saw five-hundred-krona bills and entire wallets vanishing into moneyboxes
and buckets. She felt that what she was seeing was best summed up with a short and sweet “I’ll be damned.” In her defense, she said it so quietly that she herself was the only one to hear it.
As the icing on the cake, Hitman Anders really pulled himself together during the remaining twenty minutes of his sermon. He thanked Jesus for allowing a wretched murderer to be reborn. He sent a greeting to his friend the Queen and thanked her for her support. And he tossed out another few quotes from his Post-it, but they were a bit more relevant this time: “‘God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.’” And then he repeated, backed by such tremendous applause that it was almost impossible to hear what he was saying: “Generosity, generosity, generosity. Hallelujah, Hosanna, and amen!”
Several of the visitors interpreted the unplanned “amen” to indicate that the pastor had finished (he himself didn’t know whether he had or not), upon which they left the pews and rushed up to him. At least three hundred of the remaining congregation followed. Elvis is Elvis.
After that there were two and a half hours of autograph signing and people who wanted to capture a picture of themselves alongside Pastor Anders. Meanwhile, the priest and the receptionist gave the upper secondary students a hundred kronor each out of the collection and set to counting what was left over.
In one corner at the very back of the church stood a man who for once didn’t have a rake in his hand (it would have set off the metal detector anyway).
“Thank you, Lord, for giving me the task of bringing order to this chaos,” said Börje Ekman.
The Lord did not respond.
CHAPTER 40
The grand opening had brought in 425,000 kronor after the wages paid to the teenagers from Mälar Upper Secondary School. In other words: 21,250 kronor each to the security team, Hitman Anders, the general expenses fund, and charitable purposes. The remaining 340,000 kronor was placed in the priest and the receptionist’s yellow suitcase in the eighteenth-century cabinet in the sacristy. They didn’t need the red one yet (the suitcases were probably not the safest deposit boxes in the world, but the receptionist insisted that all their assets should be kept there so that, in an emergency, it would take less than thirty seconds to flee).
That evening, as a reward for a job well done, Hitman Anders received an extra bottle of red and the promise that he wouldn’t have to wait longer than about twenty weeks before he could hand out his next half-million to the recipient of his choice.
“Fantastic,” he said. “But I would like a bite to eat. Can I borrow five hundred for some food?”
The receptionist realized they’d forgotten to inform the hitman that he would actually be drawing a salary, and since he wasn’t asking for one, they could just as well leave that matter as it was. Forgotten.
“Of course you may borrow five hundred,” he said. “Heck, you can have it! But don’t waste it all at once, please. And take Jerry the Knife with you if you’re going anywhere.”
Unlike Hitman Anders, Jerry the Knife could count: 21,250 kronor would not cover the costs for him and his staff.
“Then let’s double it,” said the receptionist.
The guards received what the hitman didn’t understand he should have had, so no budgetary harm was done.
But before Hitman Anders was able to leave with Jerry the Knife, yet another person entered the scene. “What a wonderful evening in the service of the Lord,” lied the man who had been delegated the heavenly task of putting everything to rights.
“Who are you?” asked the priest.
“I’m Börje Ekman, churchwarden of this congregation for the past thirty years. Or thirty-one. Or twenty-nine, depending on how you count. The church lay fallow for some time.”
“Churchwarden?” said the receptionist.
Trouble, thought the priest.
“Dammit! That’s right. I forgot to tell you about him,” said Jerry the Knife, who in his rush had also forgotten to watch his language.
“Welcome home,” said Hitman Anders, who was feeling blissful because he had received praise from two different sources in the span of one minute. He gave Börje Ekman a hug on his way out. “Come on, Jerry, let’s go. I’m thirsty. I mean hungry.”
CHAPTER 41
Börje Ekman didn’t manage to get to a single one of the fourteen opinions he had jotted down about the evening’s service. Instead, he was led away by the receptionist and the priest, with the promise that they would talk more in the time to come. To this he responded that there wasn’t much they needed to discuss, aside from a few important details about message, tone, service times, and a few other things: he knew how to build up the ideal congregation and had already established some contacts among the visitors.
“How much money did we bring in tonight, by the way?”
“We haven’t counted yet, but definitely over five thousand,” the receptionist said quickly, hoping that he hadn’t under-exaggerated by too much.
“Oh!” said Börje Ekman. “A congregational record! Just imagine how much we can bring in once I’ve fixed up all the organization and contents and a little of most of the rest of it. Why, I’d bet a pretty penny that we’ll break ten thousand kronor one day.”
Trouble, trouble, trouble, thought the priest.
With “I’ll be back on Monday to rake the path all nice and neat again. Maybe I’ll see you then,” Börje Ekman finally left the room.
“Why can’t I just be happy for once?” said the receptionist.
The priest felt the same, but they would have to wait until the next week to fire the man who had never been offered a job in the first place. Right now it was time to celebrate by eating a seven-course dinner and checking into a hotel. And, above all, it was time to discuss concept development, based on their experiences that evening.
* * *
Immediately following their first toast with a 2005 South African Anwilka, the priest presented her new idea.
“Communion,” she said.
“Ugh, right,” said the receptionist.
“No, not ugh!”
By communion she meant not what kept Hitman Anders going, or communion in the proper sense of the word, but communion in a new, free, Church-of-Anders sense.
“Please tell me more,” said the receptionist, taking another exquisite sip of the South African wine for which they would soon pay more than two thousand kronor, given that they hadn’t ordered a second bottle.
Well, they had discovered the link between happy visitors and increased generosity. Hitman Anders made people happy (at least, he made everyone happy except the two of them and possibly that miserable churchwarden): therefore he made them generous. Add wine, and people would be even happier, ergo even more generous! It was simple mathematics.
The priest concluded that if they managed to get anything from one glass to half a bottle down the hatch of each visitor, depending on said visitor’s thirst and body size, they could very well double the Saturday proceeds. Not from five thousand to ten thousand, as the man with the rake had suggested, but from half a million to a whole.
“Unlimited amounts of communion for everyone?” said the receptionist.
“I think we should stop calling it communion, at least internally. ‘Financial stimulant’ sounds better.”
“What about a liquor license?”
“I don’t think we need one. In this wonderful country, so full of prohibitions and regulations, you can more or less uncork whatever you like, as long as you keep it within the four walls of the church. But to be on the safe side, I’ll check first thing on Monday. Cheers, my darling. This is a good wine. Far too good for our church.”
CHAPTER 42
The following Monday, at 9:01 a.m., the priest made a call from the sacristy to the regional alcohol and tobacco authority, introduced herself as the assistant pastor of a newly formed congregation, and wondered if there was any situation in which a liquor license was required to serve co
mmunion during a service.
No, the straight-laced representative of the authority informed her. Communion could be freely served.
At this, the priest asked—to be on the safe side—if there was any limit on how much wine each member of the congregation was allowed to toss back.
The strait-laced man seemed to lace himself even straiter as he sensed something untoward about the question. As a result he chose to supplement his formal answer with a personal reflection. “While the amount of communion wine served is not the sort of thing the licensing authority has any opinion on, becoming intoxicated is not, in the eyes of the law, the main purpose of communion. One might wonder, for example, if the religious message will get across if too much wine is served.”
The priest was about to say that, in this case, it would probably be just as well if the message fell by the wayside, at least parts of it, but she thanked him briskly and hung up. “Green light!” she said to the receptionist. And then she turned to Jerry the Knife, who was present in the same sacristy. “I want at least two hundred gallons of red wine delivered on Saturday. Can you make that happen?”
“Sure,” said Jerry the Knife, who had plenty of contacts and then some. “Two hundred one-gallon boxes of Merlot from Moldova, at one hundred kronor a box, will that do? It doesn’t taste all that—”
“Bad,” was what he was about to say, but he was interrupted.
“Alcohol content?” said the priest.
“Enough,” said Jerry the Knife.
“Then let’s do it. Wait, just get four hundred boxes all at once. There’ll be more Saturdays after this next one.”
CHAPTER 43
Börje Ekman was raking his gravel path. It was truly his, and no one else’s. Hitman Anders happened by with Jerry the Knife trailing him silently. The pastor admired the quality of the raking and received kind words about his debut sermon in return.