Yes, but the priest had secured some cash on her person as she packed. The toothbrushes, underwear, and so on might have fit anyway, but she’d thought it would be a pain to have to open the suitcase every time they wanted to pay for a measly little bus ticket.
“Or for a measly little fishing shack on Gotland?” said the receptionist.
“Exactly.”
So life could have been worse, after all. To be more precise, they had 646,000 kronor once they’d paid for the shack. And just under six hundred thousand once it was furnished and clearly in violation of an unknown number of statutes, which they had begun by burning, in accordance with the plan. To be on the safe side, they did not call to ask if it was okay to kill an annoying colony of beach-dwelling, endangered sand wasps with bleach.
It ought to be possible to grow even just half a million if they could find sufficient Toms, Dicks, and Harrys to exploit, thought the pastor.
The receptionist agreed, screwed the cap back onto the bottle of bleach, and reminded her of the crucial point: that Tom must not be awarded a single öre more than Dick and Harry would immediately give back in return.
CHAPTER 66
The medieval city of Visby and its shops were preparing for the approaching Christmas season. Interest rates were down to zero point zero, which encouraged people to spend money they didn’t have so that Christmas sales would break records once again. As a consequence, people were generally able to keep their jobs, which meant they could afford to pay off their new loans. Economics is its own special kind of science.
For several months, the receptionist had contemplated how the principle of “more blessed to take than to give” could (while appearing to be the other way around) be converted into a practical methodology. Thus far, he had not got much further than various forms of the giving half of the equation. After all, it was easy to donate a coin or two. And it was fun. And it was exceptionally stupid unless you got at least as much back in return.
Once upon a time it had worked well, in the form of a generous former murderer on the one hand and a large number of collection buckets on the other. But now they had neither murderer, nor buckets, nor a congregation. The only one of those things that could be reacquired was probably the buckets, but what would be the point?
And then, during a walk along Hästgatsbacken, it so happened that the priest and the receptionist encountered an old man dressed in red with a fake white beard; he had likely been hired by the town association. He was walking up the hill and down the hill saying “Merry Christmas” to everyone he met and handing out gingerbread to the children. People big and small were delighted to see the man in red. Perhaps he spurred them on to do more shopping in the local outlets, but this seemed unlikely.
At any rate, the priest mentioned that perhaps everything would have worked out differently if only she had talked Hitman Anders into believing in the existence of Santa Claus rather than Jesus.
The receptionist smiled at the mental image of Hitman Anders in a pulpit, calling upon the almighty Santa Claus, with glögg and gingerbread for the congregation instead of wine and cheese.
“Glögg made with strong wine,” the priest mused. “Details are crucial.”
That gave her receptionist reason to continue smiling, until he suddenly grew serious. The difference between God in Heaven and Santa Claus (wherever he lived), was not, in fact, all that great.
“Are you thinking first and foremost of their non-existence or of beards?” the priest wondered.
“Neither. Both of them have the reputation for being good, right? We might have the embryo of an idea here.”
Calling God “good” in front of the priest was not the sort of thing a person got away with scot-free. She said she could come up with a hundred examples of reasons that the Lord, according to all the stories of the Bible, was surely diagnosable. She didn’t know how things stood with Santa in that respect, but it didn’t seem healthy to pop in and out of chimneys as one’s primary occupation.
The receptionist countered cheerfully, pointing out that neither of them was one of Santa’s or God’s most beloved children. A rough calculation indicated that they routinely broke nine out of the Ten Commandments. Adultery was pretty much the only one they hadn’t managed yet.
“Speaking of which,” said the priest, “shouldn’t we get married, as we’re hanging around together like this? Assuming it’s a secular marriage and that you buy the rings.”
The receptionist immediately said yes and promised rings of gold, but to get back to the Commandments for a second, he wanted to make a correction. They had not, in fact, killed anyone of their own accord.
This was true, which meant their Commandment score was not 9–1 but 8–2. Not that this was a terrific score either.
Per Persson didn’t respond: it was unnecessary. But back to the Commandments. How did it go again—were you at least allowed to covet your future wife? And your joint pile of five-hundred-krona bills?
The priest said this was a matter of interpretation, but also that she wanted to put the Bible behind her once and for all. The Pearly Gates did not exist, and if they did there was really no point standing in line to go through them. The thought of being told off by God on the threshold to his kingdom was not one she could tolerate. Instead, she wanted to know whether Santa Claus had just become the receptionist’s main channel into the theme of “generosity that one could simultaneously cash in on.”
Per Persson gave an honest answer: there was still no main channel at hand, unless the priest—unlike Per himself—would be satisfied to give while skipping the act of taking. “And I have no reason to believe that is the case.”
“Correct,” said the priest. “And, anyway, what will we do afterwards, once the money is gone?”
“Get married?”
“We’ve already decided on that. And it’s not going to make us any richer, is it?”
“Don’t say that. There’s always the children’s allowance. With six or seven kids, maybe that would be enough.”
“Idiot,” the priest said, with a smile.
At that moment, she caught sight of a jeweler’s. “Come on, let’s go in there and get engaged.”
CHAPTER 67
Winter became spring; spring became early summer. At last, the sinning would be over in at least one respect. It was time for the priest and the receptionist to become a lawfully wedded couple.
The most secular person they could find to do the job was the county governor of Gotland, who agreed to marry them by the fishing shack at the edge of the water.
“Do you live here?” she had happened to inquire.
“Like heck,” said the priest.
“Then where do you live?”
“Somewhere else,” said the receptionist. “Can we get cracking now?”
The young couple had desired the version that was over in forty-five seconds, but the celebrant made an argument for the three-minute alternative. After all, she would have to travel quite some distance, and it would be a waste to toss out a mere “Do you take this . . .” once per client, then go straight back to her office. Furthermore, she had prepared a few (in her own opinion) lovely remarks on the theme of “We must take good care of each other just as we do our fragile ecology in Gotland.”
When it dawned on the receptionist, after a certain amount of arguing over the telephone, that the county governor’s participation would be free of charge, no matter the length of the ceremony, he agreed to allow her to confuse love with biodiversity if she absolutely must. So he thanked her for calling, hung up, and made sure to hide all the bottles of bleach that might otherwise put the celebrant of their marriage in an unnecessarily bad mood. To be safe, he purchased ten Little Trees air fresheners and shoved them into the seaweed so that the county governor’s precious Nature would smell like it wasn’t: alive.
* * *
They had a marriage license and proof of marriageability, and for this the bride and groom received praise from the county governo
r.
“But where are your witnesses?”
“Witnesses?” said the receptionist.
“Oh, hell,” said the priest, who had married enough people in her day to realize straight away that this was something they had overlooked. “One moment,” she added, and ran towards an older couple who were walking along the beach some distance away.
As the county governor made note of the fact that she was just about to perform a secular marriage with a swearing priest for a bride, the priest in question argued with the couple, who turned out to be from Japan and did not understand Swedish, English, German, French, or any other of the many languages that involved some form of logic. They did, however, understand that the priest wanted them to come with her and, obedient Japanese people that they were, they did as she asked.
“Are you the bridal couple’s witnesses?” the county governor asked the Japanese couple, who just looked at the woman who had said something they didn’t comprehend.
“Say ‘hai,’” the receptionist told them (that was the only Japanese he knew).
“はい,” said the man. He didn’t dare to do otherwise.
“はい,” said his wife, for the same reason.
“We’ve known each other for a long time,” said the priest.
It took a little extra administration and a certain amount of creativity on the county governor’s part to make the marriage valid. But she was the sort of person who preferred solving problems to creating them, and after some time the priest and the receptionist were in possession of written confirmation that they had become one.
* * *
Summer passed; autumn took hold. The priest was already four months pregnant.
“Our first child allowance payment is on the way!” the receptionist hollered when he found out. “Four or five more and we’ll be in business. If we space them out right, we’ll only need one set of clothing for all of them. One will get the second’s hand-me-downs, who will get the third’s, who will get the fourth’s, who—”
“Can we start by getting the first one to the finish line, please?” said the priest. “We’ll deal with number two later. And the rest as they happen.”
With that, the priest changed the subject. These days they were living a peaceful life in a two-hundred-square-foot fishing-shack-plus-loft in which they had no legal right to live. Their cost of living was minimal. Noodles and tap water were not as luxurious as the foie gras and champagne they had once enjoyed, but now they had an ocean view and each other. Furthermore, thanks to the bleach, they had long been rid of not only sand wasps but also ants, sweat bees, emerald wasps, velvet ants, tachina flies, and almost everything else that was responsible for guaranteeing biodiversity.
Of the millions in the suitcase, not even the suitcase was left. So, honestly, how were the receptionist’s give-but-take-a-little-more plans going?
The priest had her doubts, under the circumstances. Given their current financial situation, perhaps take-and-only-take would be a better starting point.
The receptionist admitted that progress was slow. He came back to Santa Claus time and again, but that bastard never took anything in return.
The priest, who was starting to get bored with the fact that life involved little more than an expanding stomach and the approach of yet another Gotland winter, suggested they divert themselves with a trip to the mainland.
“What would we do there?” the receptionist wondered. “Aside from potentially running into a hoodlum who doesn’t like us. Or two.”
The priest didn’t quite know. But one idea might be to entertain themselves at various establishments where they could be reasonably sure no hoodlums would appear. Like the National Library, the Maritime Museum . . . As she said it, she could hear just how much fun that sounded. “Or we could try doing something nice, as long as it doesn’t cost money,” she continued. “If it doesn’t make us happy, maybe we’re on the wrong track. This could be an important piece in your never-ending future puzzle.”
“Our future puzzle, if you please,” said the receptionist. “Something nice? Help old ladies cross the street?”
“Well, why not? Or we could pay a visit to the mushroom-picking hitman, whom we so handily managed to send back to prison. If I remember correctly, I did happen to promise him a visit, in our hurry to leave.”
“But that was just a lie, wasn’t it?” said the receptionist.
“I know it was. But I read somewhere that you’re not supposed to bear false witness against your neighbor.” His priest smiled.
A little visit to Hitman Anders would bring the score to 7–3, in the Commandments game they would never win. But it was always nice to boost their numbers.
The receptionist gazed skeptically at the priest, who admitted that the idea of meeting the man they had finally got rid of could have something to do with raging hormones. She had read about pregnant women who lived on tuna fish in oil or ate twenty oranges per day or chewed chalk, so it was probably something like that. But still. At the moment, their lives were standing as still as the biological activity in the washed-up seaweed. There was not a single sand wasp left to annoy them. Perhaps a short ferry trip followed by an even shorter prison visit might make a difference in one direction or another. And at a price that would hardly register, given the context.
The receptionist realized now more than ever that there was something about pregnancy. His beloved priest was apparently pining for murderers and sand wasps. As dad-to-be, he had to take responsibility. And it would probably not be sufficient to go out for a box of oranges. “I suggest we go early next week,” he said. “If you check with the prison about visiting times, I’ll book the ferry tickets.”
Johanna Kjellander nodded, pleased, while Per Persson was barely able to maintain a happy expression. Seeing Hitman Anders again could not possibly be the meaning of life. But if his wife had raging hormones, then that was it. Also, neither the National Library nor the Maritime Museum seemed much more tempting.
“For better or for worse,” he mumbled. “I think we can chalk this one up in the ‘worse’ column.”
CHAPTER 68
Dear friends! God’s peace be upon you, Hallelujah and Hosanna.” Hitman Anders initiated the meeting in the prison visiting room.
They hardly recognized him. He looked hale and hearty, and his entire face was practically overgrown. The explanation for this last bit was that the priest had once taught him that, according to the Old Testament, one must not shave one’s face. He did not remember exactly how those words had gone, and he hadn’t been able to find them on his own, even though he’d looked, but he trusted his dear friend.
“Leviticus nineteen,” the priest said automatically. “‘You shall not eat anything with its blood. You shall not practice augury or witchcraft. You shall not round off the hair on your temples or mar the edges of your beard. You shall not make any gashes in your flesh for the dead or tattoo any marks upon you: I am the Lord.’”
“Oh, right, that was it,” said the former pastor, scratching his beard. “It’s tough to do anything about the tattoos, but Jesus and I have worked through that and put it behind us.”
Hitman Anders was thriving like a fish in water. He held Bible study groups three times a week and had snared at least three disciples, plus just as many who were wavering. His efforts had gone awry only once, and that was when he had tried to start everyone saying grace in the cafeteria, at which the cook, who was in for life, was struck by a fit of rage and started a brawl. The man who had happened to be standing closest to him in the food line when it all began was a small foreigner whom everyone called ‘Chatterbox’ because he never said anything (mainly because he didn’t have anything to say in any language other than the one he and no one else understood). The cook thrust a broken bottle into the neck of Chatterbox, who actually said, “Ouch!” in Swedish, the last word he uttered in this life.
The guy with the bottle got his sentence extended by another lifetime for that. And he was downgraded
to dishwasher.
One or double life sentences, it was all the same to Hitman Anders (although it might have been a fate worse than death to stand there washing plates for two whole lives in a row). Instead, he was eager to tell them that, although he had weaned himself off communion in the time he’d been locked up, his relationship with Jesus had suffered no ill effects. Now, the priest and the receptionist must not be offended, but Hitman Anders had discovered, during his Bible studies, that the two of them may have misunderstood a thing or two about communion. Just because a person turned to Jesus didn’t mean that he had to down one or several bottles of wine each day. If they liked, he could explain in greater detail?
“No, thanks,” said the priest. “On the whole, I think I understand.”
Well, they could always come back to it at a later date. The long and the short of it was that the cook, who would now have to wash plates every day until he’d died twice, served only milk and lingonberry juice, in accordance with the current prison regulations. Since none of the prisoners really got going on either milk or lingonberry juice, a smuggling operation brought in large amounts of the kind of stuff Hitman Anders hadn’t downed in several years and would never go back to.
“Like what?” the priest wondered.
“Rohypnol and terrible stuff like that,” said Hitman Anders. “Nothing used to make me as crazy as Rohypnol along with a little liquor would. That was a long time ago now, thank the Lord.”
The only cloud in his bright blue sky was that the Prison Service had discovered what a shining example of a good prisoner he was, and they had forged a plan behind his back to give him early release.
“Early release?” said the receptionist.
“In two months,” said Hitman Anders. “And barely even that. What will happen to all my Bible students then? And to me? I’m absolutely beside myself with worry.”