* * *
It was a girl, six pounds, nine ounces.
“There we go!” said the receptionist, to his exhausted priest. “Our first child allowance! When do you think you’ll be ready for the production of number two?”
“Not today, thanks,” said the priest, as the midwife stitched her up in the necessary area.
A few hours later, as the little baby lay sleeping, full and content on her mother’s belly, the priest found the strength to ask what it was the receptionist had not had time to finish saying when they were interrupted by other matters.
Just think, the receptionist had totally forgotten about that when the contractions had started for real. But there was no time like the present. “Oh, I was going to say that it’s great our costs topped out at four hundred sixty thousand. But we’ve brought in a small amount via our internet campaign as well.”
“Oh, have we?” said Mama Priest. “How much?”
“In our first month?”
“The first month is fine.”
“An approximate number?”
“An approximate number is fine.”
“Well, with the caveat that I might be misremembering a little, because I didn’t have time to write down the exact number, and with the caveat that another krona or two might have trickled in while we were having a baby, and with the caveat that—”
“Could you get to the point?” the priest said, while simultaneously thinking that, really, she had done more of the baby-having than he had.
“Right, sorry. With all those caveats in mind, I would say about two million three hundred and forty-five thousand seven hundred and ninety kronor.”
The priest’s waters would probably have broken again, if only it had been technically possible.
CHAPTER 72
The more visits Santa had time to make in one day, the more happiness he spread, and the better the business seemed to pay its way. Thousands in small donations came in each day, from around Sweden and, in fact, the world. Single mothers cried for joy; cute little girls did the same; puppies whined in gratitude. The daily papers wrote articles, the weekly magazines produced whole spreads, radio and TV did follow-ups. Santa Claus brought true happiness around Christmas, but he didn’t stop when winter turned to spring and spring turned to summer. It seemed it would never end.
The Santa Lands in Mora and Rovaniemi were forced to rethink their concepts. It was no longer enough to have an old man with a polyester beard who nodded sympathetically when little Lisa wanted a pony of her own. Either the polyester Santa had to give her what she wished for (but this would never turn a profit), or he had to say, as pedagogically as he could, that what he had to offer was a small packet of Lego in cooperation with the Lego Group, Billund, Denmark. No ponies, not even hamsters. The small cost of the present (which would never satisfy little Lisa anyway) was offset by a slightly higher entry fee.
Investigative journalists tried to find out who Santa was and how much he or she might conceivably be bringing in in the form of donations. But none got any further than Handelsbanken in Visby, where no one saw any reason to report how much was transferred, in accordance with Swedish law, to the anonymous foundation in Switzerland. And since each giver gave so little (after all, it was the large number of givers that had led to the millions), not a single journalist was able to poke holes in the image of the anonymous Santa as genuinely benevolent.
On one occasion, someone managed to capture Santa in a photograph, but he was so dolled up in his long beard and everything that no one made the connection to the former murderer/pastor of the Church of Anders. To play it safe, Taxi Torsten had stolen a pair of new license plates while running an errand to Stockholm. What’s more, he had used a bit of paint to transform an F into an E, so now his taxi appeared at first glance to belong to no one or, at second glance, to an electrician in Hässelby.
Speculation abounded and rumors flew. Could it be the King, running around spreading joy among his people? After all, the Queen was well known for her devotion to children and the weak. This notion took hold in various threads of speculation on the internet up until the day His Majesty happened to bag a four-pointer in a Sörmland forest at exactly the same moment that Santa was blessing an orphaned twelve-year-old refugee girl in Härnösand.
The priest, the receptionist, Santa Claus, and Taxi Torsten jointly shared eight percent of the profits, which allowed them all to live and be happy on the island in the Baltic Sea that had become their home. The rest was reinvested in glorious giving. The receptionist had also begun to work on the priest’s original plan to expand their activities into Germany. The Germans had money and heart. And they played good soccer. Plus there were so many of them that it was almost impossible to calculate how much Project Santa Claus would earn by giving away money there. The only issue was finding ten German Santas, understanding what they said, and making them understand what they were supposed to say. And getting them to keep their mouths shut about what they were up to.
***
And then there was all this stuff about the ways of the Lord and so on. Because at approximately the same time, the receptionist’s mom—the woman who had nearly become a German teacher—got tired of all the eruptions from husband and volcano in Iceland. During one of their rare visits to civilization for provisions, she simply called the police and told them where her embezzling husband could be found and, with that, she was rid of him.
The next step was to contact her son via Facebook, and by the time all was said and done, she had her own fishing shack on Gotland, not far from her son and his family, as well as a job as head of development for the coming launch in Germany. Meanwhile, the Icelandic courts decided that her husband would spend six years and four months in prison for economically relevant moral rehabilitation.
Hitman Anders, for his part, met a certain Stina, whom he soon moved in with. She had fallen in love with him when he happened to know what cauliflower fungus was called in Latin (this, in turn, could be explained by the fact that the hitman, before he had become a hitman, had bought a book in the hope of learning how to make mushrooms magical in various drug-related ways, only to realize after his twelfth read-through that he knew the names of every mushroom in existence but nothing about how to make them any more entertaining than they already were).
Together they failed to find truffles (Tuber melanosporum) with the help of their tame but slightly dense pig, then started again and eventually attained the same level of success in growing asparagus (not least because the pig was a real scoundrel when it came to rooting in the garden).
Stina was simpleminded enough; she never did figure out what her beloved Johan was doing when he spent three weeks in a row on the mainland. The important thing was that he came home when he said he would, carrying an even larger paycheck each time. And that they could go to church on the fourth Sunday and thank the Lord for everything except their luck with truffles and asparagus.
When he wasn’t acting as Santa’s private chauffeur, Taxi Torsten took the opportunity to drive his taxi on the island. Not because he needed the money, but because he liked driving. He never worked outside noon till four, on Monday through Thursday of every fourth week. He spent the rest of his time at the pub or sleeping in. He had a permanent room at an apartment hotel in central Visby, within staggering distance of every imaginable thirst-quenching establishment.
The priest and the receptionist chose to remain in the simple fishing shack by the sea, with their little baby; Grandma acted as babysitter in a pinch.
They no longer needed four or five more kids to scrounge food money via the paltry child allowance. But one or two more would probably be nice. Out of sheer love. There was no reason why they couldn’t harbor ill will towards the rest of the world or stop doing so, as the receptionist accidentally suggested one night just before bedtime.
“Stop?” said the priest. “Why?”
Oh, it was just something he’d happened to say. It was probably because their list of ex
ceptions was becoming cumbersome. The baby was on it, of course. And maybe the hitman. He was actually pretty nice, if only he weren’t so stupid. And that lady, whatsername, the county governor, who allowed them to get married even though she might have suspected that the witnesses had no idea what they were witnessing.
The priest nodded. They could probably even make a few more additions to the list. The baby’s grandma, the hitman’s new girlfriend, and if not Taxi Torsten, at least his taxi.
“By the way, I saw a sand wasp buzzing around the seaweed today. We’re out of bleach. We either have to buy some more or count sand wasps among hitmen, county governors, and the rest of them.”
“Let’s do it. Add the sand wasps, I mean. There’ll be quite a few, but I suppose there’s always room for more. Should we draw the line at that for now? And keep hating everything else?”
Yes, that was a good compromise.
“But not tonight. I seem to be a little too tired for hating. It’s been a long day. Good, but long. Good night, my dear former receptionist,” said the equally former parish priest, and fell asleep.
EPILOGUE
The priest was standing down the slope from the family’s fishing shack one beautiful evening and gazing across the sea. It was almost as smooth as a mirror. Far in the distance, the Oskarshamn ferry glided silently through the water. A lone oystercatcher was strutting across the washed-up seaweed nearby. To her surprise, he found a bug to put in his stomach: that hadn’t happened for a long time around there. Otherwise everything was quiet as the sun slowly went down, changing color from yellow to orange.
And then the silence was broken.
“You’re not a bad person, Johanna. I want you to know that. No one is bad through and through.”
Was someone there?
No. It was coming from inside her.
“Who’s there? Who’s speaking?” she said anyway.
“You know who I am, and you know that Our Father is always ready to forgive.”
The priest was astounded. Was it him? After all these years? She felt dizzy at the thought of his existence. And irritated. If he did exist, against all odds, couldn’t he have put down his foot earlier and stopped Papa Kjellander from terrorizing his family while there was still time?
“My father forgave nothing, and I have no intention of forgiving him. And don’t trot out your ‘If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other too.’”
“Why not?” Jesus wondered.
“Because it wasn’t you, or even Matthew, who said that in the first place. People have been putting words in your mouth without asking permission for centuries.”
“Hold on a second,” said Jesus, as indignantly as his temperament would allow. “It’s true that people make up all sorts of things in my name, but what do you know about what—”
That was as far as he got because the receptionist had stepped out of the shack, holding little Hosanna in his arms.
The moment was over.
“Are you talking to yourself?” the receptionist asked in surprise.
At first the priest responded with silence.
And then she was silent for a little while longer. And then she said, “Yes. I think so. But dammit, who knows?”
AUTHOR’S THANKS
I want to thank the entire Piratförlaget family, with senior editor Sofia and editor Anna at the forefront. Especially Anna this time, for her fantastic single-handed rescue work at the last minute.
Thanks also to Uncle Hans and Rixon for always being there with encouraging comments on the very first version of the manuscript. Brother Lars and Stefan in Laxå, too, provided inspiration and instilled confidence at crucial moments.
While I’m at it, I’ll remind my agent, Carina Brandt, of what an outstanding professional and friend she is. And speaking of friends: everyone ought to have an Anders Abenius, a Patrik Brissman, and a Maria Magnusson. Together you make my author’s life easier.
In a broader sense, but with no less sincerity, I would also like to thank Doctors Without Borders for making a difference in a time when more people than ever fare badly in our world. You care; not everyone does.
Among all of those for whom there isn’t space on this acknowledgment page, I would especially like to mention God. Certainly he deserves a thank you for letting me borrow him to use in my story, but at the same time, I think he ought to work harder to convince his most eager supporters not to take him so seriously. So that we can all start being a bit kinder to one another, so that we have reason to laugh more than we cry.
Is that too much to ask? RSVP.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JONAS JONASSON was a journalist for the Expressen news-paper for many years. He became a media consultant and later set up a company producing sports and events for Swedish television before selling it and moving abroad to work on his first novel. He is the author of the internationally bestselling novels The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared and The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden. He lives on the Swedish island Gotland in the Baltic Sea.
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ALSO BY JONAS JONASSON
The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden
The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared
CREDITS
Cover design by Sara Wood
Cover photographs: © Mike Monahan/Shutterstock (figures); © Slobodan Djajic/Shutterstock (man)
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HITMAN ANDERS AND THE MEANING OF IT ALL. Copyright © 2016 by Jonas Jonasson. Translation copyright © 2016 by Rachel Wilson-Broyles. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
“I rörelse” by Karin Boye, translated by Rachel Wilson-Broyles.
Apart from the exceptions noted below, scripture quotations are taken from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA, and are used by permission. All rights reserved.
The scripture quotation “Drink, thou also, and let thy foreskin be uncovered. The cup of the Lord’s right hand shall be turned unto thee” on p. 172 is from the authorised King James Version.
The scripture quotation “No longer drink only water, but take a little wine for the sake of your stomach” on p. 172 is from the ESV ® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version ®), published by HarperCollins publishers © 2001 by Crossway. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
FIRST ECCO PAPERBACK PUBLISHED 2016
EPub Edition April 2016 ISBN 9780062458186
ISBN 978-0-06-245817-9
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Jonas Jonasson, Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All
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