The Hand that Trembles Read Online Free PDF Page B

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