by Ann Fillmore
Sture hesitated a moment before springing the real reason he came to her. Taking in a breath, he asked, “Would you come with me to the Pastorkirche to talk to this Birgitta Algbak?”
“Why do you want to talk to her face to face? And why have me come with you?” Her had been said with complete distaste.
“Because I don’t want to face her by myself,” explained the giant of a young man rather shamefacedly. “It’s devilishly important to find out what’s been done, how all this came about and if Algbak has any word from Mrs. Ixey yet. Come on, you’re supposed to be my advocate.”
Inge Person wrinkled up her handsome face. “I’ll charge you for the time, oh yes, I will.”
“Thank you, Ms. Person,” Sture Hermelin replied in mock ruefulness. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll get my coat.” Her sigh of resignation was heart rending.
As they exited the office, she gathered up a handful of kronor for the drunks and, although Sture tried to lead her around the other side of the fountain, as he had come, she went directly past them and slipped the coins into their outstretched hands.
When they had reached the Saab, Sture commented, “That’s illegal.”
“My own philosophy,” she said back, “I feel they have the right to remain free. Why should they be locked up in the winter if they don’t want to?”
“‘Cause they’re sick and they need to dry out,” Sture responded with the appropriate explanation. He knocked on the café window where Krister sat, drinking coffee, and reading the Dagbladet newspaper. He dropped the paper and jumped to his feet.
“We could walk,” Ms. Person said.
“No, we’re going to drive up in the Saab,” the young man insisted and when Krister opened the back door, he motioned the attorney in, before sliding in himself. “To the church offices,” he told Krister.
They drove around the block and down the boulevard that led over the twelfth century bridge into the part of Norrkoping that was much as it had been for centuries. Some of the wooden buildings, painted the traditional dark red, were in the exact spot they had been since the church, always the center of feudal towns, had been established in the ninth century. Archaeologists were finding that some of the huge oak logs, corner pieces of the houses sitting right on the river’s edge, had come directly from the hills around Mora far to the east in Dalarna, probably at the same time the church was being constructed. Only recently had the church, a beautiful example of an early Gothic abbey, been renovated, with the help of archaeologists, who managed to save authentic historic features, such as the ancient woodwork, the graffiti on the back walls drawn by bored parishioners in the back pews, and the uneven floor trod by so many feet.
The Saab drove past the freshly whitewashed, small abbey and pulled up at the office next door, which was fairly modern, built in 1920. They parked in a spot quite visible to the rows of lighted windows on the left. Sture and Ms. Person got out and trailed by Krister, who would wait in the lobby, they went into the small area where supplicants to the bureaucratic system could call for various officials. Sture filled out a little piece of paper requesting an interview with Birgitta Algbak. The secretary hurried away.
Minutes passed. White-haired women in business attire came and went from the front desk, collecting other attendees of the system. Finally, a chunky woman, most likely in her mid-fifties with pitch-black hair, so obviously dyed as to hurt one’s sensibilities, came to the desk. Half-lens reading glasses hung by a cord around her neck. In her hand was their little paper.
“Sture Hermelin and Ms. Inge Person?” her matronly voice croaked. The absence of a title before Sture’s name was emphasized.
Inge pushed ahead in her role as advocate for the Hermelin estate and Sture followed her through the desk gate, which Miss Algbak held open for them. They wandered along through hallways until they reached a tiny office where, as Miss Algbak sat, she motioned them into plastic chairs that had surely been designed for robotic imitations of humans, certainly not for a real human, in front of her desk.
“Why did you come here?” Her directness was accented by sliding her reading glasses onto her nose and peering over them as if examining a couple of bugs that had had the audacity to crawl into her office.
Inge sat on the edge of her uncomfortable chair and began, “We are requesting any update on the status of Baron Hermelin’s estate. We understand the Swiss accounts, which feed money into the trusts accounts, are locked up until word comes from the…” She almost said supposed and thought better of it, “first Mrs. Hermelin.”
A smile of majestic proportions filled the lower part of Miss Algbak’s face. The red lipstick she was wearing made it all the more grotesque. “Why yes, I imagine young Mr. Hermelin here would like to know when he’ll have money available to him.”
“It would be useful,” Sture glowered.
“Oh, your estate monies can be used at any time. Except for the household budget, most of that trust fund has gone into holdings by the Swedish National Historical Trust.”
Inge said, “That happened a long time ago. The entire west wing of the castle is a bed and breakfast for travelers and hikers and scientists visiting the Ostby area. What’s of much more urgent concern is the trust fund for the organization Baron Hermelin was working with…”
“You mean that group in Israel?” Miss Algbak’s smile became a half sneer. “The one helping battered women? Yes, that is too bad their funds are on hold, but there is nothing I can do until the first,” which was said with a severe tone and a told-you-so glance at Sture, “Mrs. Hermelin sends her forms back to us filled out and complete. Even then, legally, we are required to do a thorough check on her to make sure she is the correct person. This will be done after she’s come to Sweden and presented herself in person to this office.”
There was no doubt in Sture’s mind at that moment that Miss Algbak meant to drag this whole process out as long as was possible. “That organization is a very worthy one. You as a woman should be trying your damnedest to help.”
“I imagine you feel you are right, pys,” she responded insultingly by calling him a young twerp, “it is all a matter of opinion, and my opinion has always been that the family together is a much healthier way to live.”
Inge’s bottom was only barely on the edge of her chair. She was so frustrated she plunged ahead, “Regardless of your opinion, legally you must move forward with the paperwork as soon as the forms are returned by Mrs. Ixey of California, whether she is here in person or not. The Swiss banks will proceed with monies for Emigrant Women as soon as you acknowledge Mrs. Ixey’s assignment of the estate.”
“As an attorney of such good standing,” that also came out as an insult, “you realize we cannot be too careful in these matters, especially when this has all been such an unusual case.” Miss Algbak peered again over her spectacles, this time giving the attorney a piercing stare that would have fried lesser mortals than Inge Person who, being one of the only lawyers in the entire parish, had actually done a number of criminal trials.
“I’ll warrant your finding of Mrs. Ixey and her legitimacy of being the first wife, I’ll even grant your holding up of the accounts as proper until receipt of Mrs. Ixey’s credentials, but,” Inge fought back, “I don’t see why you have such antipathy toward an organization such as Emigrant Women.”
An enigmatic frown crossed Birgitta Algbak’s face, her body slumped back into her chair, not in relenting, rather in ownership. One bony, pale white hand slowly moved to point straight up in the air. “The baron has his lordship thanks to Swedish royal decree in 1546. The Hermelin money has come through the good graces of the Swedish people; it would seem only right,” the bureaucrat’s righteousness oozed, “that it be reinvested in Swedish interests. In this instance, he chose to invest in an Israeli organization. So we shall see…”
“It’s a bloody international organization which is headquartered in Israel for safety!” exclaimed Sture, furious.
“Sweden is a perfectly
safe country for women. I’ve never heard any complaints.” Algbak’s pointing finger lowered and pressed upon the papers in front of her. “He should have founded it here.”
“Miss Algbak,” the attorney stated in her deepest voice, “Baron Hermelin was not the founder, nor does…did he have any administrative capacity with EW. It actually works through the auspices of the United Nations.”
“Not my concern,” said Birgitta Algbak and quickly changed the subject. “My particular goal is to help the Swedish government gain a way to reestablish tax rights on the Hermelin profits which heretofore have gone into Swiss banks.”
“Fy fan!” cursed Sture Hermelin jumping to his feet. “So that’s what’s up.”
Inge put a hand to his arm and tried to calm him. In a voice fit for telling a jury the truth, and nothing but, she said to Miss Algbak, “Almost every penny of the Hermelin wealth was made through investments in humanitarian enterprises in both Sweden and foreign countries. The baron was amazingly astute at picking starter companies, cottage industries, small ecologically oriented firms, and kicking them into full gear. Reindeer ranching in north Sweden, fish farms in Vietnam, medicinal pharmacology in the African jungle, a factory using hemp for building materials in Mexico, and every bit of that money is accounted for and taxed by the Swedish government.” Inge stood also, “No more, Miss Algbak, no more. I’ll fight you on this.”
Birgitta Algbak smiled sweetly up. “There is only one person who can make any changes in the way things are disposed at this present time.”
“That damned Mrs. Ixey,” grumbled Sture.
Inge Person’s pert blond eyebrows scrunched together, “Bonnie Ixey is an American.”
“No…wait!” exclaimed Sture. “Her father was Swedish. I remember seeing it on the copy of the papers Miss Algbak sent her.”
Birgitta Algbak nodded. “As soon as Mrs. Ixey officially registers in her Pastorkirche in Dalarna, she becomes a Swedish citizen.”
Inge’s whole body went rigid. “And her newly acquired holdings become taxable through death duties.”
Birgitta Algbak had a thoroughly smug expression on her ugly face.
“Let’s leave. It does no good to stay,” insisted Sture, pulling on his attorney’s arm.
“This does not end here,” Inge said grimly as Sture forced her out the door.
“Goodbye, my dears,” a self-satisfied Algbak responded.
The two collected Krister in the lobby and, each bundling up against the bitter cold, headed for the big car. It was a relief to be in the warm Saab.
“Back to your office, Ms. Person?” asked Krister.
“Yes,” she replied, then turned to her young charge, “what time is it in America, specifically in California?”
“You mean now?” he asked and shrugged, “I’m not sure.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Krister, “it’s about nine hours earlier than us. My wife’s sister lives in Seattle. That’s the same time as California.”
“Drat. One a.m. That won’t do,” she reflected. “Sture, what say we give the first Mrs. Hermelin a call around four o’clock this afternoon? Catch her at breakfast.”
The Saab pulled up in front of the little café again. The drunks noticed and their expressions looked hopeful.
“Sure, why not?” Sture said. “What do we ask her?”
“When she’s coming over? What her decision will be on the funding of EW?” Inge continued more to herself than to the young man, “I’d like to find out if she understands all the implications of this. She may not have any idea at all!”
Sture Hermelin said, “You could well be right. I’m sure old moose’s behind didn’t tell her everything.”
Both Krister and Inge Person laughed at the translation of the bureaucrat’s name. Inge went on, “Perhaps that’s why the moose’s-behind biddy has it in for anyone with money and why she instantly hated me!”
“Why?” Sture inquired, puzzled.
“Her name!” Krister managed between guffaws. “Who could stand having the name algbak, moose’s back, without going crazy. Every kid in school must have called her algbakdel, moose’s butt.”
“Bakslug, that’s what she is! Underhanded, conniving…an algbakdel by any other name…” muttered Sture, remaining grim. “Okay, we ring Mrs. Ixey at four today.”
“I’ll set up a conference call from my office. You be near a phone in the castle. We have a date.” She hopped out of the big car, walked back past the drunks, and handed them some more coins.
It was as the big car was heading out along the highway at a higher speed that it happened.
“Dad?” came Sture’s voice over the phone, shaky and unsure.
“Yes, min son, what news do you have?” It was lunchtime in Haifa. Carl-Joran sat perched on the edge of the bed, phone to ear, Siddhu sat at the table cum desk. He had brought sandwiches from the Jewish deli and was unwrapping them. Halima Legesse stood near the balcony windows looking out toward the harbor.
“Dad, I know you want to hear about money,” Sture almost stuttered, “But…Dad, I know you’re in danger, but…am I? Now that you’re supposedly dead?”
Carl-Joran tensed. “What…?”
“The engine in the Saab blew up.”
“Blew up!” the exclamation, although in Swedish, made Halima and Siddhu look around at the tall Swede. “How? Are you hurt?”
“No,” said Sture, “only by the grace of God. Krister’s face and hands got burnt, not badly. He’s home now. The Saab’s ruined, Dad. The whole engine blew to pieces and caught fire.”
“When did this happen?” asked Carl-Joran.
“Two hours ago. The police came. They’re investigating. One of the officers told me he thought someone put sugar in the petrol tank.”
“Sture,” Carl-Joran was insistent, “you ask the police for the results of their investigation, and then tell me what they found. Okay?”
“Yes, I…I’ll do that.” The young man sighed deeply, “Dad, tell me the truth, am I in danger from some enemy of yours?”
“I don’t see why you should be,” responded Carl-Joran sincerely, “There’s no reason you should be. That’s why I became deceased. So, calm down. Thank God no one was badly hurt. Now, call our insurance company, they should give us a replacement car right away.” The frustration of everything as it was made Carl-Joran grit his teeth between words. “Did you talk to the Pastorkirche when you were in Norrkoping?”
“Yes. Ms. Person came with me. We spoke to an absolutely disgusting individual named Algbak.” Sture managed to laugh a little, it was harsh and bitter. “Old algbakdel wants to screw over our entire estate and make the government tax all our accounts for death duties. She’s managed to do a good job so far. EW is really stuck. Their account is held up until this Mrs. Ixey decides on the disposition of the accounts.” He went on to describe everything Miss Algbak had said and finished with, “Ms. Person wants to talk to Mrs. Ixey today, this afternoon, on a conference call.”
Carl-Joran agreed and added, “Perhaps Dr. Legesse also?” He looked around at the tall black woman who raised her eyebrows, puzzled at hearing her name in the Swedish conversation, “When are you going to make this phone call?”
“Four this afternoon…” Sture, his voice trembly, interrupted his own words. “Dad, are you sure someone isn’t after me like they’re after you?”
“I…” the father thought a moment, “I’ll have Habib check. It wouldn’t make sense to put a fatwa on you. There’s no reason. That’s why I became deceased—to stop such behavior.”
“What’s a fatwa, Dad?” Sture inquired.
“Umm, it’s one of those death sentences fanatic Muslims put on an enemy. Like they did to Rushdie.”
“Oh, swell!” Sture tried to joke and then went deadly calm. “Can you find out for certain I’m safe? Was the engine exploding merely an accident? Far, you go have your adventures, but I don’t want to get assassinated.”
“I’ll try to find out. Habib should have so
me sources he can ask. Okay?” Carl-Joran said firmly, working very hard to keep the fear out of his voice.
Sture sighed again. He was growing old before he had any desire to do so. “Well, Ms. Person will contact us as soon as she makes connection with Mrs. Ixey. Where should she call to get hold of Dr. Legesse?”
“Uh, at EW, that would be safest.” Carl-Joran felt terrible. He had not wanted this for his son. It must have been a bad coincidence, someone in Norrkoping who hated the royalty, such people did still exist in Sweden. No way did he want his only son to experience the constant anxiety, the looking over the shoulder, the nightmares that would surely come if it were a fatwa.
This was not what Baron Hermelin had planned five years ago when he offered to help battered women. Somehow he had neglected to consider that in helping the victim he must eventually face the perpetrators, which included the authorities that both condoned abuse and more often than not participated in the societal system that perpetuated the victimization of women. He had believed that he could have his adventures and Sture could peacefully pursue his medical studies. After forcing himself to relax, Carl-Joran said over the phone, “You be careful. You are my only son. I love you very much. I will try to fly home soon and deal with everything.”
“You mean you’ll be alive again?” Sture asked hopefully, “I sure hope so, this is a mess.”
“Let me discuss it here,” his father replied. “Goodbye, kille.”
“Adjo, Far.”
The big man clicked off the phone and pensively laid it on the nightstand. He glanced first at Halima Legesse and then at Siddhu Singh Prakash. In English, their common language, he said, “My attorney, Miss Person, will be calling Mrs. Ixey at four this afternoon. That’s five o’clock here. She’ll make it a conference call and that way, Halima, you’ll have a chance to tell Mrs. Ixey about Emigrant Women.”
Halima moved closer to the baron. “Did I hear the word fatwa in that conversation?”