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

The police killing was never cleared up. None of those who could testify about what had happened wanted to risk becoming a victim of the same thing. The police investigators didn’t even get as far as an unofficial finger-pointing behind closed doors.

To shoot a cop in the throat in public, and get away with it, was something special. But little brother remained little brother: nothing could beat having done time for sawing a man in half with a chainsaw. Furthermore, Johnny hadn’t spent as much time in the United States as Kenneth had in his day. The US really built up your image.

The corner shop had been permanently closed since their homecoming from the trade fair in Germany. Out with the old, in with the new, and away with the separating wall. The coffin store had suddenly doubled in size. Sabine put up a new sign on the door of the former corner shop: ‘Closed for ever. Buy your food elsewhere. PS Don’t forget you are mortal. Right now, ten per cent discount on coffins. Next door.’

They never got any walk-in clients from the street, but the list of orders from Sweden and Europe was extensive. Julius received praise from Sabine for his organizational skills and swiftness. In return he offered her loving words about her artistic talent and beautiful eyes.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Allan.

Sabine was in charge of deliveries. She either drove them around herself in the hearse or used DHL for the more distant corners of the world. While she was out on the road, Julius took over the role of answering machine.

‘Die with Pride AB, how may we be of service?’

‘Well, I guess we’ll find out. My name is Johnny. Do you make coffins to order?’

‘Yes, and we’re happy to personalize them. That’s our speciality.’

‘Then I need your help.’

‘Things are a bit hectic at the moment…’

‘You’ve got five days.’

‘Hectic, as I said. I don’t think…’

‘How much?’

Julius could smell cash. He had done so uninterrupted for at least sixty years. Here he had a customer on the line for whom money was no object.

‘Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be impossible to… We typically list our prices in euros, but we’re an international player, so to speak. Four thousand eu—’

‘I’ll give you five if you make the coffin the way I want it, no grumbling.’

‘Of course,’ Julius said, thinking he could milk the client a little more. ‘Five plus tax, that is.’

‘No, five without tax or a receipt. Or grumbling. Cash.’

The asparagus farmer already suspected that the motif was not going to be sugary-sweet. Even so, over the next few minutes, he found himself gasping repeatedly. The customer, Johnny, had only a vague idea of what he wanted on the coffin, so he listened to the supplier’s artistic opinions. After almost fifteen minutes, Julius was able to summarize what they had come up with. He certainly didn’t want any mix-ups.

‘Now let’s see… The majority of the coffin will be black. On the top we’ll paint a red swastika. You’re sure about that, then? Right. Moving on, along each side it will read, “Our blood is our honour” in red on a white background, followed by a Celtic cross. And on the ends it will say, “White power” in white, followed by the SS logo. That seems right as well? Okay. On the rest of the empty areas we’ll make sure to put flames. Have I captured this all accurately?’

‘Yes,’ said Johnny Engvall. ‘That’s totally accurate, I would say.’

‘So we’re striking the stuff about how cops and race traitors must die, and the various phrases about homosexuals and Jews?’

‘Yes. You said that would be a little too much?’

Julius tried to find words. For quite some time, all of this had been not a little too much but much too much. Yet there was something about Johnny that made you not want to say no to him. And Julius wasn’t even thinking primarily of the money.

‘Well, it’s important for the coffin to maintain a certain degree of dignity. For example, I hesitate to send a message about who should die along with the already-dead person in the coffin.’

‘I’ll take it,’ said Johnny Engvall. ‘Deliver it to the morgue I mentioned in time for the funeral on Saturday, okay? I’ll send the money in a bag, by taxi, right away.’

Taxi? Julius thought. But he said something more down-to-earth: ‘On Saturday? That’s an unusual choice for a funeral. Typically—’

‘Typically people listen to me and to whatever I say,’ said Johnny Engvall.

He was tired of all these questions. The funeral guests were coming all the way from America and had no time to wait for a proper burial day according to Swedish tradition.

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ said Julius. ‘It’s fine.’

That last part wasn’t true. It wasn’t even half fine. They’d apparently attracted a Nazi for a customer. It would never do to deliver slipshod work on this order.

And Sabine didn’t.

And still, what happened happened.

‘Your job is certainly full of variety,’ Julius stated, as he studied the three latest coffins, all ready to be delivered.

The one on the left was black with swastikas and white-power symbols. The one in the middle was yellow, red and blue in homage to Djurgården hockey. And the one on the right was pale blue with white rabbits on each of its sides, hopping in a dignified manner through a green meadow. On the lid were fluffy white clouds and the words ‘God who holds His children dear, watch over me as I sleep here.’

‘Yes,’ Sabine said, as she washed her hands. ‘Today swastikas, football and bunnies. Tomorrow Lenin awaits. Apparently the last Communist is not yet dead. Unless he was the one who just died. Can’t we go out and celebrate at a restaurant tonight?’

‘I’d love to! But what are we celebrating?’

‘Anything. You decide. That we found each other? That we’re starting to do well financially? That you haven’t had a blister in several months?’

Julius thought the best reason was that they’d found each other. ‘Shall we take the hearse or a taxi?’ he wondered.

To make a Lenin coffin, Sabine began by lacquering the entire thing in the proper shade of red. As the paint dried she began practising Lenin himself. It turned out right every time. He was easy to make: his face was the right level of angular.

‘It’s no Picasso, but it’s close,’ she said to herself, pleased.

Then she took off her painter’s smock and spiffed herself up to perform the week’s deliveries. Two coffins were going to a single morgue south of the capital, and a third to a different one just thirty kilometres away. As the money flowed in, she sent more and more of her deliveries via DHL. Once, in the early days, she had driven all the way to Sundsvall and back, but now she outsourced anything that needed to go beyond the Mälaren Valley and its immediate environs.

It was Friday, and there was just one day left to disaster.

Dressed in a white shirt, his most attractive black leather jacket, black leather trousers and black gloves, Johnny Engvall stood outside the church to greet the funeral-goers. He had planned a small, dignified gathering. The four leaders of the Aryan Brotherhood in Los Angeles were the guests of honour. The only guests, actually. Four angry, dangerous men. Plus Johnny himself, who was also angry and dangerous.

Johnny knew that after the funeral he would be faced with troublesome questions about how the Aryan Alliance’s only member planned to take over Stockholm’s cocaine cartel and thereafter bring down the government. But the Americans had already said, ‘Take your time,’ once. If Johnny played his cards right, they might say it again. They still didn’t know about the four million euros from the secret Finnish financier. Kenneth had delayed sharing this information: he wanted to find the right way to say it. Now he no longer existed and Johnny was wondering how the right way would have sounded, coming out of Kenneth’s mouth.