Юнас Юнассон - The Accidental Further Adventures of the Hundred-Year-Old Man

The service on board was excellent. Allan had a vodka and Coke, Julius a gin and tonic, and Minister Wallström a glass of white wine.

‘Nice plane you’re flying around in,’ said Julius. ‘The Swedish government’s plane, I assume. It will be nice to go home again.’

The minister for foreign affairs sipped her wine and replied that the plane didn’t belong to the Swedish government but the UN. ‘And you’ll have to long for Sweden for a little while longer, Mr Jonsson. We’re on our way to New York. President Trump is waiting for us there, at the UN building. I just learned he wants to meet you too, Mr Karlsson. My colleagues on the Security Council have hinted that he’s not in the best mood. Unless angry as a hornet is his best mood.’

‘My, my,’ said Allan. ‘Just think, getting to meet another American president before turning up one’s toes.’

‘Have you met one before?’ asked Minister Wallström in surprise.

‘No, two.’

The UN plane landed at JFK and was treated with the respect every UN plane deserved. Margot Wallström, Allan and Julius were guided a few steps to a black Lincoln that took them to the VIP area for entering the United States of America. There stood the president’s chief strategist, Steve Bannon, stamping his feet impatiently. He was annoyed for any number of reasons. Partly because he was being made to play errand boy, but mostly because Donald Trump had bawled him out earlier that day when he had flown into a rage and accidentally kicked the president’s son-in-law in the backside during a conversation about proper policy on the Middle East. Since it wasn’t possible to bawl back without getting fired, he’d had to bawl at someone else instead. He had to let off steam somehow.

‘Don’t make any trouble here,’ said Steve Bannon, to the border control officer. ‘The president is waiting.’

The officer became nervous when she realized she was creating a delay for the president, but she still made sure to do her job. Two of the three diplomats did not have ESTA authorization.

‘But they’re diplomats, for fuck’s sake,’ said Steve Bannon.

‘That may be,’ said the border control officer, ‘but I still have to do my job.’

‘Then do it,’ said Bannon.

It took a certain amount of digging in the immigration computer, plus one phone call, before the officer was able to rubber-stamp the diplomats Jonsson and Karlsson. There was nothing in their backgrounds to suggest they might be enemies of the state. Neither of them had even been born in Tehran.

‘Welcome,’ she said at last.

‘Thanks,’ said Allan.

‘Thanks,’ said Julius.

‘Now come on!’ said Steve Bannon.

‘Hope the president isn’t this irate,’ mumbled Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström.

He was.

Perhaps their carry-on luggage should have been included in the inspection of Allan and Julius, but typically carry-ons are inspected at the departure airport. And the journey had been taken in a UN plane. And all three were diplomats. And then there was ranting Steve Bannon.

These reasons weren’t sufficient, yet the fact was that the United States of America had just been saddled with four kilos of enriched uranium, carefully packed in a North Korean briefcase, without having any clue that it had happened.

This occurred to Julius in the limousine on the way to the UN building. He also realized that Allan had never told the minister for foreign affairs what he was carrying around. ‘What are you going to do with that?’ he whispered, while Margot Wallström was engrossed in a phone call.

‘I suppose it could make a nice present for the president,’ said Allan, ‘as long as he’s so eager to meet with me. But why don’t you hold on to it for now? It doesn’t seem quite right to barge into the UN building carrying enriched uranium without letting them know in advance.’

Julius squirmed.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Allan. ‘I’ve thought it all out.’

The minister for foreign affairs finished her call and the limousine arrived at their destination. Julius was assigned to a nearby park bench and Allan promised to be back soon.

As Karlsson and Wallström approached the security checkpoint at the main entrance, the latter took the opportunity to give the hundred-and-one-year-old a piece of advice. Or perhaps it was more like a plea. Given what she had seen him evoke during their dinner with Kim Jong-un, she suggested he consider being a bit more agreeable this time.

It was obvious that she was on edge about what was to come.

‘Agreeable,’ said Allan. ‘Of course. That’s the least I can do, Madame Minister, since you saved our lives and everything.’

Donald John Trump was born in New York on 14 June 1946, a year to the day after Swedish citizen Allan Emmanuel Karlsson solved the last problem facing the United States in its struggle to create the atomic bomb.

Allan and Donald had more in common than one might at first think. For example, both had received inheritances from their parents. Allan had taken over a cottage with no insulation or running water somewhere in the forest outside the Sörmland village of Malmköping, while young Donald’s father had left him twenty-seven thousand centrally located apartments in New York City.

Subsequently things went equally poorly for the sons. Allan accidentally blew his cottage sky-high and as a result became homeless. Donald did more or less the same thing with his father’s business empire and was only rescued from bankruptcy by the help of a number of benevolent banks.

Another common denominator was that Donald and Allan had sat around sighing over their existences at more or less the same time, but on opposite sides of the globe: Allan on Bali, before he was bewitched by a black tablet and let himself be carried off by a hot-air balloon, Donald in a big white house in Washington, surrounded by idiots and malevolent characters.

It wasn’t as pleasant to be President of the United States as Donald Trump had expected. Firing people was just about the most fun thing in the world. When he did it in the business world and on TV, he was met with fear and respect. But as soon as he set a head or two rolling in the White House (or thirteen: it sort of depended on how you counted them), the corrupt media insinuated that he was mentally unstable.

Another horrible experience was that the Republicans – his Republicans – didn’t do as he said. And that apparently the law was written in such a way that he couldn’t fire them too.

And all this goddamned talk of racism. Like how his father Fred had allegedly been arrested at a KKK march in Queens at some point back in the beginning of time. For one thing, it had never happened. For another, he was released right away, so what was the big deal?

Worst of all, you could no longer tell the truth in this country. Not if you were the president. Like saying Mexicans were rapists. And Muslims were something even worse, every last one.

There were bright spots too, of course. After all, the president had a lot of say. He could start wars if the necessity arose. Real ones and verbal ones. His war against the fake media was ongoing. Donald Trump praised himself for having invented the word ‘fake’ on his own. Anyone who invents new words can make them mean whatever he wants. In practice, it meant that fake news was anything Trump didn’t like reading, listening to or watching.

But it was trickier with the real wars. Heads of state in other countries turned out to be as difficult to remove from office as any given House member or senator. The best remaining option was to threaten to bomb the shit out of them. This tactic worked in the business world, if you switched out the word ‘bomb’ for ‘sue’. But when your opponent was a pint-sized, narcissistic madman with the capacity for nuclear weapons, you really had to think twice. This wasn’t exactly one of Donald Trump’s strong suits. He had to admit that to himself. His time was far too precious for it. And, also, the North Korean narcissist reminded him of someone – he just couldn’t think who it was.