The Hand that Trembles Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘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 Lester 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