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

Even Allan thought this last bit didn’t sound sufficiently agreeable.

‘Speaking of nothing much at all, might you allow me a personal reflection, Mr President?’ he said, as the president was still pondering his next step.

‘What is it?’

It was worth a shot.

‘That’s a tremendously nice hairstyle.’

‘A tremendously nice hairstyle?’ said the president.

‘Well, actually, all of you looks very nice. But the hairstyle has something a little extra.’

President Trump adjusted his reddish-blond mop. His internal rage ebbed away. ‘You’re not the first to say so. Not the first.’

Clearly pleased. It was a wonder how easy some things were. Allan vowed to practise this ‘agreeable’ idea again the next time he met an American president.

The Swiss-Swede was decently likeable, now that Donald Trump thought about it. And a little exciting. With good judgement, it seemed. He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go see to some important business. No more time for you.’

Margot Wallström stood up to leave the meeting she would have been more than happy to do without. Allan, due to his age, was considerably slower.

‘Hold on,’ said Donald Trump. He had an idea, and it never took him long to move from thought to action. This old man was long-winded and strange, but he definitely had taste. What he’d said about the hairstyle was right on target. ‘Do you play golf, Karlsson?’ he said.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Allan. ‘I once had a Spanish friend who played the harmonica. But that was before he died. After that he didn’t play anything. Got his head shot off in the Civil War. A real shame. That was a while ago now.’

Donald Trump wondered which civil war Karlsson could be referring to. Surely he wasn’t old enough for it to be the American one. Oh, well, whatever war it was, it didn’t matter. It would be interesting to keep him around for a while yet.

The problem was, the president had a round of golf planned outside New York, by invitation of one of his better friends, a real-estate magnate who’d invested seven hundred thousand dollars in Trump’s presidential campaign, and was now poised to get six point two million dollars in lowered real-estate tax in return. This was best celebrated over eighteen holes, but unfortunately a virus had sent the magnate to bed with a high fever. Trump was loath to cancel the game just for that. Golf was golf, and remaining at his borrowed desk at the UN building didn’t seem like a viable alternative. Each time he made himself available, it seemed the whole world wanted a piece of him.

So golf it would be, and Trump informed Karlsson that he was welcome to join in, so they could chat a little more. If he wanted, in addition, to make himself useful he could keep an eye on the Puerto Rican caddy. Perhaps Puerto Ricans weren’t any more likely to be thieves than anyone else, but they did have a tendency to drag their feet.

‘I don’t know what sort of talent I have for keeping Puerto Ricans in line,’ said Allan, ‘but I suppose we can find out. If the president desires my modest company, I won’t be the one to upset the apple cart. I must confess that I have done just that at certain junctures when I happened to end up involved with various leaders from the many corners of the world. It’s seldom ended well.’

The old man was being difficult again. But he still had his charm. Had his charm. ‘Then that’s settled,’ said the president. ‘Nice!’

He asked Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström to leave, with the comment that she should watch herself from now on. ‘Thanks for coming. Now go.’

‘I should be the one to thank you,’ said Margot Wallström.

Once a diplomat, always a diplomat.

The President of the United States doesn’t take a taxi, or even an Uber, from Manhattan to a nearby golf course. He takes a helicopter. It was waiting on the roof of the UN building. Trump and Allan were escorted to it by five Secret Service agents, three of whom followed them on board. Another five had long been on site at the golf course, to secure the area, along with a large number of local police officers.

Allan spared a fleeting thought for his friend Julius as he stepped into the helicopter. The weather was pleasant for the season and he would have nothing to complain about, sitting on a park bench in the sunshine; he’d just have to sit there a little longer. How long could a round of golf take? An hour?

During their journey over Manhattan and Queens, the president pointed out all the buildings he’d inherited, bought or sold throughout the years. And a few he’d neither inherited nor bought nor sold, but which had slipped in nonetheless. Then he talked about what he planned to do with the real-estate tax, that vile health-care reform, various free-trade agreements, and the general level of decadence. He unintentionally gave the unemployment rate as double what it currently was and promised Allan he would halve it so it reached actual levels.

Allan listened. He already knew enough of the contents of the black tablet to observe that the president was exaggerating or making things up as often as he hit the mark.

The helicopter landed; the president and his hundred-and-one-year-old Swiss-Swedish companion stepped out just a few metres from the first tee. There was no waiting time for the president. Hole number one was a par four and 310 metres. It bent slightly to the left, with a wide fairway and a deep bunker on the right side.

‘Well?’ was Trump’s first and only word to the Puerto Rican, who informed the president that he would do best to play it safe and put the ball in the middle of the fairway so that he would be in the optimal position to hit the ball into the green.

The president’s golf skills were not, however, so great that the ball always went where it was supposed to. Like this time. A more forceful hit than intended, plus a crosswind.

‘You goddamn worthless good-for-nothing,’ said President Trump to the poor caddy. ‘Worthless good-for-nothing.’

Clearly it was the caddy’s fault that the wind had taken the ball and sent it into the bunker.

Allan knew not a whit about golf, but it seemed to him that the guy holding the club must be at least partially responsible for his own stroke. Above all, he had grown tired of the president’s habit of repeating himself, like a scratched record. It probably wouldn’t count as agreeable to bring this up, but Wallström wasn’t present any longer, so what would happen?

Given that things were as they were, he supposed whatever happened would happen.

‘Why do you always say everything twice?’ Allan asked the man who had just put his ball into the bunker.

‘Huh?’ said the president.

With that, the hundred-and-one-year-old found himself in a bind.

‘At the risk of becoming guilty of the same crime, I will ask again. Why do you say everything twice, Mr President? And most of the time something that isn’t even true.’

‘Not true? Not true? ’ said the president, and in an instant he was back in the same mood he’d been in when they’d first met. ‘Oh, so you’re the New York Times ’ errand boy, you rat!’

Some golfers are more sensitive than others, immediately after hitting into a bunker.

‘I’m not running errands for anyone,’ said Allan. ‘At my age, you don’t run at all. I’m just wondering why, first, the president has such a hard time telling the truth, and second, how it could be the potentially lazy Puerto Rican’s fault that the man holding the club just shot his ball into a deep pit, and third, why the president has to make almost all of his stupid remarks again right after saying them the first time.’

Some golfers are more sensitive than those who are extra sensitive immediately after hitting into a bunker. It’s possible that President Trump belonged to that category.