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

‘Yes, that’s her name.’

Allan composed a letter on the napkin.

Dear Chancellor Merkel, I have come to realize via my black tablet that you are a lady to be reckoned with. With my friend Julius, by trade an asparagus farmer, I happened to bring four kilos of enriched uranium with us when we left North Korea after a short visit. By luck and cleverness both we and the uranium ended up in the United States, and the plan was to hand it over to President Trump. I had the dubious pleasure of meeting him. He shouted and squawked, and, in fact, his demeanour was rather reminiscent of Kim Jong-un’s. So the asparagus farmer and I reconsidered. Trump must already have plenty of enriched uranium. What he could possibly do with another four kilos would probably be a mystery even to him.

In any case, we met your eminent UN Ambassador Konrad outside the UN building and decided to join ranks for a very pleasant dinner. Konrad is off answering nature’s call at the moment, and I’m writing in all haste behind his back, so to speak. Excuse the penmanship (continued on the next napkin).

So, after a schnitzel and a few rounds of beer and vodka that for some reason had to taste like apple, Julius and I became more personal with Konrad than perhaps we should have. Unfortunately enough, the resulting words fell in such a way that Konrad was given the impression that the briefcase you have now inherited contains a variety of instructions for building nuclear weapons. Instead, the package you have just received contains those four kilos of uranium I mentioned on the previous napkin. The fact that they are now in the secure hands of the Federal Republic of Germany is a relief to Julius and me. Perhaps it’s not so much fun for you but, after all, life is full of hardships. We trust that you will handle the uranium in the best way possible (continued on the next napkin).

My friend Julius says, by the way, that you Germans are good at growing asparagus too, if, that is, German asparagus is actually grown in Germany, in contrast to

At that instant, Julius yanked the pen out of Allan’s hand and told him to get a grip.

‘Konrad will be back at any moment! For God’s sake, hurry up!’

He gave Allan the pen back, so he started a new line and kept on writing.

The long and the short of it is, we ask you not to be too angry with Ambassador Konrad; he seems to us to be a fine representative of your country. If you must be angry with someone, Donald Trump is a better choice. Or perhaps Kim Jong-un over in North Korea. By the way, they say they have their sights on over one hundred times as much uranium as we managed to fool them out of. With five hundred kilos they could afford to keep on failing at their undertakings until they hit the mark. Konrad will be back soon. Better wrap this up. With kind regards, Allan Karlsson and Julius Jonsson

Allan placed the three napkins on top of one another in the proper order and asked Julius to stick them into the side pocket of the briefcase.

Julius did as he was asked, assuming there was no time to edit out the silly part about his relationship to German asparagus. Given the circumstances, Allan had actually done a rather good job on the napkins.

Konrad, however, didn’t return for some time. Bathroom visits could, after all, vary by nature. This one was clearly of the longer sort. Julius had a sudden inspiration. He took a scrap of paper from the inner pocket of his worn summer jacket. There he had Gustav Svensson’s phone number. On the table was Konrad’s phone.

‘Do you suppose…?’ said Julius.

‘I absolutely suppose,’ said Allan.

Julius called. And found himself speaking to the same voicemail as last time. This was deeply annoying.

‘Gustav, for God’s sake! What was the point of the phone if you’re going to keep it turned off all the time? Allan and I made it to New York from Pyongyang and next we’re going…’

‘Here he comes,’ said Allan.

Quick as a wink, the phone was back on the table.

‘Well, then, my friends, I suppose we should be thinking of getting along,’ said Konrad, taking out his wallet.

The bill was already on the table, next to the phone. Germany was about to become 620 dollars poorer, plus a hundred dollars in tips (plus the cost of a fifteen-second call to Indonesia). Konrad placed seven hundred-dollar bills and two twenties on the table, stood up, and said it was time for the friends to part ways.

‘And for me, I suppose, all there is to do is take over this exciting briefcase and catch a cab,’ he said.

‘Yes, I suppose that’s true,’ said Allan, standing in the way so Konrad wouldn’t notice Julius commandeering the tip.

While Allan and Julius used part of the tip money to kit themselves out and most of the rest to take the bus to Newark airport, President Trump sat in the clubhouse at the golf course, feeling a frustration he couldn’t put into words.

What was that meeting he had suffered through? Had Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström sat in the UN building sneering at him while old man Karlsson babbled away? Maybe that was what had happened. That was definitely what had happened. Yes, it was.

And Karlsson himself. Who on earth was he? Talking about goat’s milk with the President of the United States? In front of the hysterically sneering, almost mockingly laughing Minister Wallström?

Not to mention what had happened next.

The president was seething. The Communist had questioned his impulse control. He should have walloped him in the head with his golf club. Trump mused, self-critically, that now and then he went too far in his attempts to arrive at a compromise in every situation.

What should he do now? The seething went on. The president opened his laptop and signed into Twitter.

Three minutes later, he had ridiculed a television host, insulted a head of state, threatened to fire one of his own cabinet members, and declared that his declining approval numbers had been made up by insert-the-newspaper-of-your-choosing.

He felt better.

Minister for Foreign Affairs Wallström had kept her promise: Messrs Karlsson and Jonsson were booked in business-class seats to Stockholm that very evening.

‘Any bags to check?’ asked the woman at the check-in counter.

‘No, thank you,’ said Allan.

‘Just carry-ons?’

‘We just gave our carry-on away.’

Their journey to the motherland was a pleasant experience. It began even before the plane took off, when Allan and Julius were offered something to drink.

‘Champagne? Juice?’ said the flight attendant.

‘Yes, please,’ said Allan. ‘And no, thanks.’

‘Same here, please,’ said Julius.

Later came a three-course dinner (not that the old men were hungry, but free was free) and if you pushed the right button after dessert you could lie down without even having to go to bed first.

‘What will they think of next?’ said Allan.

‘Mm-hmm,’ said Julius, who had already covered himself with a blanket.

‘Shall I read aloud to you from the tablet?’

‘Not unless you want me to take it away and throw it out of the window.’

Allan and Julius stood in the arrivals hall of Terminal 5 at Arlanda Airport, looking around. Julius summed up the situation: they were freshly kitted, well rested, full – and had twenty dollars in assets.

‘Twenty dollars?’ said Allan. ‘That ought to be enough for a beer each.’

Two small beers. Then they were out of cash.

‘Now we’re freshly kitted, well rested, full, and not quite as thirsty as we just were,’ said Allan. ‘Do you have any ideas about what to do next?’

No, Julius didn’t, not off the top of his head. Perhaps they should have considered this before drinking the last of their money, but what was done was done. The bit about personal finance was probably at the top of the agenda.