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

Their journey took them down Mälarvägen to Highway 267 and onto the E18 headed for Oslo.

‘I’ve never been there,’ said Allan.

‘And so it will remain,’ said Sabine. ‘What would we do in Oslo?’

The question was where they would go instead. And what would they do with their lives?

After a few dozen kilometres in the direction of the Norwegian capital, Sabine aimlessly turned south again. Twenty minutes later, Allan discovered a serious news item on his tablet. A possible terrorist attack was under way in Stockholm. An out-of-control truck had driven into a crowd and there were scattered reports of shots fired.

For once, Julius and Sabine wanted Allan to tell them more.

Well, it had happened a few hours ago and the driver of the truck had managed to escape. It seemed no one had been apprehended. Blockades everywhere; the police were evacuating the city centre. Several were feared dead. The tablet didn’t have much more to say on the topic.

It sounded terrible. Julius was ashamed when he not only allowed himself a full-body shudder but also had the thought that if there had to be a tragedy, at least it had come at an opportune time. With police and blockades everywhere, the Nazi ought to be lying low, while they were putting increasing distance between themselves and the beleaguered capital.

He had just finished that thought, but had come no further, when Sabine drove straight into a police checkpoint.

‘I’ll close the lid,’ said Allan.

One of the two officers saluted and informed them that the checkpoints had been set up to inspect vehicles and people on account of a dramatic incident in Stockholm.

‘We just heard about it,’ said Sabine. ‘Truly awful.’

The police officer looked at her and Julius. His gaze moved to the coffin in the back and he said he understood that they were out on official business.

‘Yes,’ said Sabine.

‘Official business,’ Julius confirmed.

It was just that the female driver and the man at her side were not dressed for a delivery of this sort. He was wearing a colourful jacket, a crumpled shirt, and shabby gabardine trousers. She looked more like a retired hippie with medals around her neck.

Caution was not only a virtue, but also a police duty.

‘May I see your IDs, please?’

‘Of course,’ said Sabine. ‘Of course not, now that I think about it. I’m afraid I left my wallet at the funeral parlour. Some tasks are more urgent than others, even in our line of work.’

But Julius had discovered Sabine’s handbag on the floor at his feet. A stroke of luck. He dug out her driving licence and handed it over with his own passport.

‘You’re a diplomat?’ the officer asked Julius, sounding as surprised as he was.

‘Just home from the embassy in New York,’ Julius said.

‘Isn’t the embassy in Washington?’

‘Just home from the UN building in New York, and prior to that the embassy in Washington.’

The policeman looked at him for a long time. ‘One moment,’ he said, walking back to his colleague. They exchanged a few words, then both returned to the hearse.

‘Good day,’ said the colleague, who was just as much of a police officer.

‘Good day,’ said Sabine. ‘We have an urgent delivery, so to speak. Is there a problem, Constable?’

‘Inspector,’ said the colleague. ‘There’s no problem, certainly not, but we have to follow orders. Would you please open the back?’

That was just about the last thing Sabine wanted to do.

‘Oh, please, Inspector!’ she said. ‘Think of the sanctity of the grave!’

The inspector said that what he had to think of first and foremost was the nation’s security. And then he opened the back and studied the white coffin and the rails it rested on. He pulled the coffin out, apologized for what he was about to do – and opened the lid.

‘Peace be with you, Constable,’ said Allan. ‘Or Inspector, I mean. Please excuse me for lying down while I greet you.’

The inspector stumbled backwards and landed on his rear. His colleague swore in shock. When the smoke cleared, the two alleged undertakers and their far-too-animate corpse had been escorted to the police station in Eskilstuna for questioning.

After a strained opening, the tone of the interrogation became rather milder. Credit for this was due to lead interrogator Holmlund, who understood that while the situation was beyond strange, in all likelihood it had nothing to do with the terror attack in Stockholm.

Sabine explained that the members of the group were producers of coffins, that they had business to attend to in the south, and that it had taken creative problem-solving to fit three people into the two-seat vehicle.

‘Not just creative,’ said Holmlund. ‘Illegal. All passengers in a vehicle must be belted in. In the front seat since 1975, and in the back seat since 1986.’

‘Of course, I wasn’t sitting,’ Allan said. ‘I was lying. And what is the definition of a back seat? I’d say I was in the boot.’

But this wasn’t Holmlund’s first rodeo.

‘Karlsson, was that your name? I had been about to let it go this time, but if you think backchat a good idea, perhaps I should reconsider.’

‘No, no,’ said Julius. ‘Karlsson here is a hundred and one years old, but he’s as daft as a hundred-and-eleven-year-old. Pay no attention to him. We’ll definitely belt in the old man, we promise. The fact is, we’ve already considered a straitjacket.’

‘Come now,’ said Allan. ‘But certainly, Mr Interrogating Officer, I hear what you’re saying although my hearing is pretty bad. I apologize on behalf of myself and young Jonsson here.’

Lead interrogator Holmlund nodded. He had no time for fools on a day like this. And there was no reason for a more thorough investigation. It had been proved that the woman owned a company in the coffin industry.

‘Off you go, then,’ he said. ‘And if Karlsson’s going to crawl back into that coffin, he damn well better be strapped in. As long as he’s alive. After that I don’t give a hoot what you do with him.’

Back at the car, Julius pointed out that they had to find some sort of belt for Allan in the back.

‘Oh,’ said Allan, ‘forget about it. I’ll just play dead next time.’

Too much had happened for one day. East of Eskilstuna, Sabine found a pension where they could check in to catch their breath and take stock.

The problem was, they had just lost their home, workshop, business and future. All that remained: one hearse.

The manager of the pension, Mrs Lundblad, was a plump woman of around seventy-five. She was glad to receive unannounced guests. ‘Of course I have available rooms for Messrs and Mrs Undertaker. There are five rooms in all and all five happen to be empty, so take your pick. Would you like dinner? I can offer pea soup with ham, or… Well, pea soup with ham.’

In Allan’s opinion, pea soup with or without ham had never brought anyone joy. But perhaps there was something to wash it down with. ‘That sounds good,’ he said. ‘What will be served in the glasses? Beer, perhaps?’

‘Milk, of course,’ said Mrs Lundblad.

‘Of course,’ said Allan.

After the soup, Sabine called a meeting in the room she was sharing with Julius. She began by stating what Julius had already realized: their coffin operation was as dead as someone out there wanted them to be. One had to assume that the Nazi at least knew Sabine’s name: she was, after all, the firm’s frontwoman. Unless he was totally useless he would have found Allan as well, via the Companies Registration Office. But not Julius.

‘We need a new source of income,’ said Sabine. ‘New lives altogether. Preferably before we run out of money. Any ideas?’