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

No, certainly not. Sabine was glad she hadn’t chased Allan and Julius off with a broom, an option she had weighed for quite some time.

‘It’s high time it was your turn again,’ said Julius.

He had already managed to become almost as enamoured of this woman as he had been of Minister Wallström. ‘What happened with Other Side AB? I assume business isn’t booming, given that you’re running a shop.’

What had happened was that her mother had died the previous summer. Eighty years and a few days old. She had been the driving force of the operation for all those years, communicating non-stop with spirits while high on LSD.

‘Was that often?’ asked Julius.

‘Non-stop, like I said. But then one trip went particularly awry last summer, and she took her life. Or else she just switched sides.’

‘Oh dear. How did the switch itself happen?’

‘She was supposed to go to a séance in Södertälje, and I thought I’d better go with her because she was really tripping and would never find her way there or back without me. On the platform she caught sight of a ghost no one else could see. She said it was hostile, and she chased it onto the track before I could stop either of them. And she was run over by the eleven twenty-five train from Norrköping.’

‘Oh dear,’ Julius said again.

‘How did the ghost fare?’ Allan asked.

That’s the kind of thing that can come from the mouth of someone who has never in his life thought before speaking.

Sabine aimed a weary gaze at Allan. ‘Ghosts are hard to kill.’

She went on, in a subdued tone, about how the income from Other Side AB had gone constantly towards tiny sweet LSD pills or towards the somewhat larger but equally sweet LSD stamps, with happy characters on them. Even so, mother and daughter were able to take care of themselves since they lived for free in a small cottage on Sabine’s grandmother’s land. Her grandmother had also passed on the previous summer, at the age of ninety-nine, and before her mother realized she’d inherited a whole house to blow on drugs, she had ghost-hunted her way to the other side, or wherever she was nowadays.

‘Ninety-nine,’ said Allan. ‘That’s not old at all. But, tell me, what sort of relationship do you and narcotics have?’

‘None,’ said Sabine. ‘That’s probably why I was such an incompetent student for Mum. She always said you had to free yourself. Maybe I think too much.’

‘Hmm,’ said Allan. ‘Julius here thinks just about all the time, but I’ve seldom noticed that it helps.’

The accused thinker ignored Allan’s comment. ‘So you inherited a whole house from your grandmother?’ he said instead.

Sabine nodded. ‘Once it was sold, and the funerals and everything were paid off, I had two whole million left over. I thought about what I wanted to do and came to the conclusion that being an entrepreneur was the life for me. I’m terribly good with numbers. It’s the most beautiful word in the world, if you ask me. Entrepreneur! ’

Julius agreed. There were some words and expressions that stood out above the rest. Entrepreneur was one. Without a receipt was another.

But then everything had gone wrong. For one thing, of course, the money wasn’t enough for a location in central Stockholm, where all the customers were. Which was why she now sat where she was, forty kilometres north of all the action. For another, she had led herself astray doing what Allan had warned about: she had thought too much.

‘May one enquire what sort of thought led to a corner shop in Märsta?’ Allan asked.

‘I think you just did,’ said Sabine. ‘I sat down at my grandmother’s kitchen table with a paper and pen. I was thinking, you know, that the broader the potential target audience, the greater the chance of success. This led to two universal truths. One: all people eat food for as long as they live. Two: despite this, they die eventually. All of them, no exceptions.’

‘Except possibly Allan,’ said Julius. ‘He turned a hundred and one not long ago.’

‘Wow,’ said Sabine. ‘That’s what I call having one foot in the grave. It’s too bad you don’t have any money, or I would have sold you a coffin.’

Allan looked around. There was no coffin section.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Is the funeral parlour next door part of this business as well?’

Sabine smiled at Allan’s deductive reasoning skills. ‘Well done!’ she said. ‘To live, you need food, hence the corner shop. And when you die, you get buried. Hence the production of coffins. Simple as that. Selling coffins.’

Sabine’s story caused Allan to become downright philosophical. ‘Life and death,’ he said. ‘And ghosts in between.’

‘But you could make money from the ghosts, or you could if you were prepared to kill yourself with drugs in the process. Life, at least in my version of a business plan, was useless even before you two started emptying the shop of goods without paying. And death has been even worse.’

Julius felt sorry for their new acquaintance. And he was slightly ashamed about his failed attempted robbery. ‘Didn’t you say you were terribly good with numbers?’

‘I am! If you like, I can tell you exactly how big my loss will be next quarter. And how much bigger, as a percentage, it will be the quarter after that.’

‘I see.’

Sabine went on: ‘It turned out that those who are alive don’t want to accept that it’s a transitory state. People don’t expect to die, which means they don’t arrange for a coffin ahead of time. Once they find themselves dead, to their own astonishment, it’s hopeless doing business with them.’

‘But they must at least have bought food before they died, right?’ Julius said. ‘To keep death at bay, I mean.’

‘Yes, I assume as much. But seldom from me.’

A first, last and only ad campaign (‘Comestibles and coffins at low cost’) in the local free paper had ended up as the beginning of a rumour that spread all the way to the municipal health and safety inspector, who paid a surprise visit to make sure no corpses were being stored with the dairy products.

‘That campaign was my worst idea yet, in a parade of bad ideas.’

Julius wondered what she would do now, if business was so bad on both sides of the wall. Sabine didn’t know. All she knew was that she was tired of everything. If only her mother hadn’t hammered all that supernatural stuff into her. What she really possessed, aside from her skill with numbers, was artistic talent.

‘Artistic talent?’ said Allan.

‘Yes, I can paint your portrait, if that might be of interest. Shall we say four thousand? Oh, no, of course not.’

Allan apologized for what Sabine had just remembered: he had no money.

‘But speaking of that, I feel responsible for this little youngster Julius and his well-being. The blister he’s been whining about incessantly ever since just before it appeared was not a pretty sight. Is there anything we could assist you with, Miss Sabine, that you might allow us to stay a night or two? We can sleep on the floor over there by the yogurt, if we must. I promise not to die in my sleep and cause more trouble with the food-safety authorities.’

Julius caught on. ‘And I’m good at carpentry. Perhaps the collection of coffins could use some new additions.’

Let them stay overnight? That would be moving fast, from customers with no money to overnight guests in under half an hour. But Sabine noticed again what she’d suspected early on: she enjoyed the old men’s company. So… why not? She turned to Julius. ‘Little youngster,’ she said. ‘Well, where else could you go, with those heels? If I understood correctly while you were robbing me, you don’t have anywhere to go even if you could walk.’