The Hand that Trembles

by Kjell Eriksson

  The street noise grew louder the closer he got to St Marks Road. A rickshaw had collided with a motorcycle, and two men were involved in a heated dispute. A woman standing next to the motorcyclist was crying. Blood trickled down her forehead. The rickshaw driver was screaming out his fury, saliva was spraying out of his mouth, and he was gesturing wildly to underscore his arguments.

  The crash had blocked traffic and caused a serenade of honking, from the bellowing of the lorries to the ridiculous high-pitched signals from all the yellow rickshaws trying to manoeuvre their way through. Sven-Arne slowed down but did not stop. He had his inner crash to sort out.

  Afterward, when he had caught his breath at Lester’s, he cursed his own stupidity. He should have interpreted the signs better. Despite the evident warnings, he had continued along the street.

  His goal had been Koshy’s, where he returned to eat dinner once a year, for sentimental reasons. It was the only nostalgic act he allowed himself.

  One evening in November 1993, disoriented and hungry after having vomited on the plane from Delhi, he had found himself standing outside the airport and had asked a taxi driver to take him to a good restaurant. That had been Koshy’s.

  Now he was going there to celebrate the twelfth anniversary of his arrival to the city that had become his home. It was, especially at first, an expression of self-torture, to test his own resolve.

  The very first visit had not gone very well. He had burst into tears. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the painful journey through Europe, the long flights and the extraordinary tribulations that caused him to collapse silently at the table. The waiter became aware of his distress and hurried over, but Sven-Arne waved him away, dried his tears, and opened the menu.

  He was a stranger when he staggered out of the airport, and the sense of alienation had grown during the short ride into the city centre. At his table at Koshy’s he realised for the first time the enormity of his actions. Until this point he had been acting automatically without any thought of the consequences, from Uppsala to Arlanda airport, at Heathrow, at the terminal in Delhi. He had only one goal: to get away.

  The yearly visit to the restaurant was therefore a test. He always sat at the same table. If it was occupied, he waited. Then he recalled in his mind the first experiences of Bangalore, the confusion and indecision, the uncertainty if he had done the right thing. Every year he came to the same conclusion: Yes, it had been the right thing to do. What other conclusion could he come to?

  He stepped into Koshy’s, relieved to escape the noise of the street and any possible new unsettling events. He went to the right, to the somewhat more exclusive part, pushed open the swinging door, and set his sights on the table, which was obscured both by a pillar and the maître d’. The latter had been the same for all these years, a broad-shouldered wrestling type whose hair was growing thin on top but who still had an imposing handlebar moustache, large hands, and a heavyset, choleric face whose expression could nonetheless lighten at a moment’s notice.

  It came as a complete shock. Sven-Arne Persson turned on his heels and fled.

  TWO

  Jan Svensk got halfway to his feet, had automatically stretched out a hand as if to detain the fleeing man, but then realised it was meaningless. The doors swung back and forth a few times; he was gone.

  It isn’t possible, he thought, frozen for a few moments before he flung himself out of his chair and onto the deafening street. The heat struck him. He stared in all directions and glimpsed a grey head of hair through the filmy plastic window of a rickshaw. The driver set off and the vehicle was swallowed up in the heavy traffic.

  He returned inside. The other guests, about a dozen, stared at him with undisguised curiosity. The waiter regarded him quizzically.

  ‘Is anything wrong, sir?’

  Jan Svensk shook his head.

  ‘I just thought … there was a gentleman …’

  ‘Oh, you mean “the Polite One”?’

  ‘You know him?’

  The waiter waggled his head, a gesture that Jan Svensk had never really grasped the meaning of. Was it an answer in the affirmative, a ‘no,’ or did it stand for the more diffuse notion of ‘maybe’?

  ‘Does he come here regularly?’

  The waiter glanced around. The maître d’ approached.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘No one knows, sir.’

  The waiter started to draw away from the table, but Svensk grabbed hold of his arm.

  ‘Does he come here often?’

  ‘No, not very often.’

  They looked at each other. Jan Svensk felt the waiter had the upper hand, perhaps because he was standing. How tall could he be? Five foot four at most, he thought, not without bitterness. He himself was six foot one.

  The waiter smiled, straightened his sleeve, and turned his attention to the next table after having delivered another waggle of his head that Jan Svensk interpreted as ‘That is all I know’ or perhaps more precisely, ‘That is all I will tell.’

  He resumed his eating, with a lingering feeling of having been unfairly treated. The food was not tasty. It reminded him of excrement, or perhaps it was the other way around. That which he was able to excrete into the hotel toilet retained its original form; a brown, sometimes yellow, stinking mass that dribbled out of him and left a burning sensation. At least it smelt better beforehand, he thought, and swirled his spoon in the bowl of lentils. The consistency was that of a thin porridge.

  Could it be Persson? And what was his first name? It was a hyphenated name, something a little nerdy. Sven-Arne, that was it!

  Jan Svensk had read about doppelgangers; from time to time one saw published pictures of people who closely resembled each other. Often it was someone from Tierp or Alingsås who looked ridiculously like a film star or other celebrity. Could someone really look that much like Persson? Jan Svensk shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he murmured, deciding the matter, and looked around for the waiter, who very likely harboured more information, he was sure of it.

  The maître d’, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, glided over to his side.

  ‘Is everything to your satisfaction?’

  Or at least this was what Jan Svensk thought he said, and he nodded.

  ‘I was wondering, that gentleman who came in here … Is he someone you know?’

  The maître d’ made a dismissive hand gesture.

  ‘He has dined here a few times, but we do not know him.’

  They are protecting him, Jan thought.

  ‘He is … an old friend from my homeland.’

  ‘Really?’ said the maître d’.

  He wants money, Jan thought.

  ‘A friend of the family,’ he went on.

  ‘I am sorry you did not have a chance to talk to each other.’

  You old bastard! You know who he is. The maître d’ disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared. Svensk turned his head and saw him exchange a few words with the waiter.

  Svensk waved his arm and the waiter approached.

  ‘The bill, please.’

  The waiter returned with it after ten minutes. Jan Svensk gave him around 500 rupees.

  The waiter looked at the bills.

  ‘It is too much,’ he said, and opened the brown leather folder that held the bill.

  The total came to 420 rupees.

  ‘The rest is for you,’ Jan Svensk said.

  The waiter put one bill back on the table.

  ‘It is enough, thank you.’

  Then he smiled. Jan Svensk became bright red in the face.

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ the waiter said slowly, ‘but like our guests, we have our dignity. I do hope the food was to your liking.’

  THREE

  The rickshaw took him away from Koshy’s. He had given the driver his address, but after a couple of minutes he changed his mind and gave him another: South End Circle. To Jayanagar, just south of Lal Bagh, the botanical garden, where Leste
r lived. He could spend the night there. He had done that before; the first was when his work at Lal Bagh had taken longer than expected. Lester had invited him for a late supper and thereafter offered to let him spend the night on a camp bed in the inner room.

  This, like his visit to Koshy’s, had become a tradition. Lester invited him over several times a year. Sven-Arne always knew he would be treated to something special.

  Now he would arrive uninvited, but was convinced his colleague would find nothing extraordinary in this. And if he did, he would not show a trace of it to Sven-Arne.

  Lester was hardly the kind of man to be taken by surprise. He faced every new development, whether unexpected or not, with the same equanimity. He was also the only one who knew enough about his past that Sven-Arne would be able to tell him about what happened at the restaurant. Lester would listen, send one of his sons out for some beer, maybe a small bottle of rum, then dispense some sound advice and an invitation to stay overnight.

  Lester’s father was British and sometimes Sven-Arne had the impression that Lester had designated him to be a stand-in for his biological father, a man who had come to Bangalore in the mid-fifties and settled in a decent house in the otherwise so rundown streets around Russell Market. No one knew what he lived on, perhaps a pension. He had been injured in the war, in the battles just outside of Rangoon, Burma, and he was missing the lower half of one arm, but had also been psychologically damaged. Lester had told him that as a child he would sometimes be awakened by his father’s screams when the nightmares set in.

  Lester’s father not only hated all Japanese, but all Asians. It was therefore a bit of a puzzle why he had decided to stay in Bangalore and marry a woman from Madras, who had given birth to three children in rapid succession. In the early 1970s, when Lester was eight years old, the one-armed Englishman disappeared for good. Six years later the family was notified that he had died in a hospital in Mombasa. He left the house in Noah Street, and five thousand pounds in an account in a Hong Kong bank.

  The money made it possible for Lester and his two brothers to get an education. Lester did a three-year horticultural degree in northern India and returned to Bangalore on his twenty-third birthday. He received a post at Lal Bagh and had stayed. Now he was responsible for the arboretum, care and replanting.

  Lester opened the door, quickly scrutinised Sven-Arne’s face, but did not reveal by the slightest gesture what may have crossed his mind. He stepped aside and called to his wife that they had a visitor, while he observed Sven-Arne.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  Sven-Arne nodded, took off his sandals, and placed them by the door where they had to fight for a spot next to half a dozen others.

  ‘I come unexpectedly, I know, but something has happened.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ Lester said, and led his guest into one of the three rooms of the flat. The caterwauling of a television could be heard from the adjoining room.

  His wife stuck her head out of the kitchen.

  ‘A little tea,’ Lester said.

  Sonia disappeared.

  ‘Are you hungry, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Sven-Arne said. ‘Tea is good.’

  Any trace of appetite was gone. He was still shaken and it was an effort to keep his voice steady.

  ‘Is everything well with your family?’

  ‘Everything is fine,’ Lester said. ‘John took his test the other day. I think it went well. Lilian is full of life. She is with a friend. A school assignment. Joseph bought a moped yesterday.’

  Lester had a habit of speaking in abbreviated sentences – he sort of thrust out the information, drawing in air through his thin lips and then forcing out another sentence. Sven-Arne had always thought it must be difficult, but was no longer bothered by his friend’s strange way of speaking.

  ‘I am sure the exam went very well,’ he said. ‘John is a very gifted young man. He is sure to go far.’

  Lester waggled his head modestly. John was his favourite, even if he treated the other two with equal love.

  Sonia came back with tea, black for Lester and with milk and a lot of sugar for Sven-Arne. Thereafter she withdrew to the kitchen. Normally she might have stayed for a few minutes in order to listen to the men talk, but Sven-Arne could not help noticing Lester’s discreet hand gesture.

  They drank tea in silence. On the television, a local news program came on.

  Lester listened to the listing of the main stories before he repeated his question, whether anything in particular had happened. He knew that the twentieth of November was an important day for Sven-Arne, the day that he went to Koshy’s.

  ‘A man from my former life was at Koshy’s.’

  Sven-Arne was not sure how to proceed. How much should he tell? Lester knew that he had more or less run away from his homeland, that he now lived stateless and without any identifying documents, basically free-floating, but he did not know all the details. Sven-Arne had told him very little, and Lester had never pushed to know more.

  ‘He was a former neighbour of mine,’ he went on. ‘Back then, a long time ago, he was a young man, perhaps twenty, a little wild perhaps but basically a nice guy. Now he looks like the typical sort who comes to Bangalore on business, but it was definitely him.’

  ‘Did he recognise you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Did you speak to each other?’

  Sven-Arne picked up the teacup but his hand was shaking so badly that he decided to put it down again.

  ‘You walked out,’ Lester said.

  ‘Ran.’

  Lester smiled and Sven-Arne thought he knew why. He was not known for his rapid pace – quite the contrary – and his friends at Lal Bagh would tease him about his slow gait, and sometimes called him ‘the snail.’

  ‘Can this harm you?’

  ‘I am dead,’ Sven-Arne said.

  ‘It is not that bad, I hope!’

  Lester put his hand on Sven-Arne’s.

  ‘I am officially dead in Sweden.’

  ‘You live here.’

  ‘One is not allowed to be dead in Sweden and at the same time living somewhere else. Sweden wants to keep track of its citizens.’

  ‘Have you played a trick on Sweden?’

  It was a funny question, and it made Sven-Arne smile. Yes, he supposed he had. He had pulled their leg – his wife’s and his old friends’ – and not only them. He had even betrayed the official Sweden, with all its record-keeping obligations and responsibilities. Not in a flamboyant way, but by simply slipping away unnoticed and in secrecy dissolving all ties to the homeland, he had placed himself outside of the order upon which Sweden was grounded, a system he himself had supported and helped develop. In many respects he had personified and been a spokesman for that order. Therefore his escape was a double betrayal. He was not a ‘nobody’, someone who lived on the outskirts of society, who had refused all responsibility.

  He had erased his identity, transformed himself into John Mailer, and been swallowed up by the human mass that was India, making himself as anonymous to the kingdom of Sweden as all his newfound Indian friends were. Lester did not exist to Sweden anymore as an Indian, one of at least a billion, so unimportant as to be dispensable, someone one did not have to take into account in the overall social structure.

  To this – Lester’s level – was where Sven-Arne had taken refuge. Had become one with those in a sense untouchable. Now Sweden, in the guise of a former neighbour, had caught up with him and he realised that he would not be able to escape so easily. Svensk’s boy was sharp. His father, Rune Svensk, and Sven-Arne were the same age and had been in primary school together, they had played in the neighbourhood and later, many years later, become neighbours.

  Jan – that was his name – would never keep quiet.

  ‘John, my friend.’ Lester interrupted his thoughts and placed his hand on Sven-Arne’s arm. ‘Don’t worry too much about this. You former neighbour may not be sure of himself
.’

  ‘I must leave,’ Sven-Arne said.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘It’s better that you don’t know. There are a couple of things I must do first.’

  ‘What will happen to your youngsters?’

  Sven-Arne shook his head almost imperceptibly. He would abandon them, disappear without a word of parting or explanation. What would they think? Fatigue, hunger, thoughts of the school and the friends in the garden caused him to let out a sob.

  Lester leant forward across the table. Sven-Arne smelt his onion-heavy breath. Everything is about to be determined, he thought. Everything depends on what he says next. But Lester remained quiet. The sound of the television dampened suddenly and Sven-Arne realised that Lester’s wife must have left the kitchen.

  They poured themselves more tea. Sonia supplied a plate of cookies. Only at this sight did Sven-Arne become aware of how ravenous he was. With the intention of dining at Koshy’s he had not eaten anything since breakfast. He ate a couple of cookies, glanced at Lester and met his gaze.

  Did Lester sense that it would be a long time before they saw each other again, if ever, that the friendship of many years would end here at a table with two cups of tea and a plate of cookies? Sven-Arne had Lester to thank for many things. He was the one who had put in a good word for him, taken him on as a helper in the garden, and this without asking any questions. ‘Merciful’ was the word that Sven-Arne came to think of. Lester had been merciful. This was a word that had dropped out of common usage and was only used by believers, something he had never been.

  He had made a place for Sven-Arne, skillfully bypassing the Indian bureaucracy, and presented it as if Sven-Arne was a middle-aged man who needed a change of scenery for a short while, would only play a visiting role, and then return to his country. But Lester must surely have guessed that day he first saw him that this was a man who would be a lifelong fugitive.

  Sven-Arne had never asked why he had been received with such a humble and unquestioning welcome; he knew there could be no rational explanation. This was what Lester was like. He would have been embarrassed to entertain such a question.