The Hand that Trembles Read Online Free PDF

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